


Unkind

by moonythejedi394



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Brothels, Come Marking, Daddy Kink, Don't copy to another site, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Smut, F/M, FTM Penetration, Flirty Jaskier | Dandelion, Gender Roles, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Angry, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Size Queen, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Slut, Knotting, M/M, Magical Gender Confirmation, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Misogyny, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Poetry, Rutting, Scents & Smells, Sex workers, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Songwriting, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Triss Merigold, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Writer Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22808293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonythejedi394/pseuds/moonythejedi394
Summary: Since his early days at Kaer Morhen, Geralt was told to ignore his emotions. They would do him no good, rather, they would bring him nothing but misery. If he took attachments, if he cared about people he met along the way, it would just put them in harm's way. They would die one day while he would live or he would get them killed. Witchers, Alphas bastardized and stripped of all that made them protectors and providers while still children, were not meant to be loved, nor to love. Such was their lot in life. A Witcher could only depend on himself or his brothers. Most of his brothers were slaughtered by an angry mob. Geralt wanders the continent alone. He understands well the first lesson Vesemir taught him. He was not made to love, and to love another would be unkind.Jaskier doesn't care about all that nonsense.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert (The Witcher), Jaskier | Dandelion/Others
Comments: 97
Kudos: 815
Collections: Finished Fics I Love, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Toss a Coin to Your Witcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ah, hello, yes, i'm your friendly neighborhood trash queen and i've found a new comfortable hyperfixation thanks to my chronic enabler,[softestbuck](https://twitter.com/softestbuck)/[goodmanperfectsoldier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier). but i'm still on my bullshit, yes, you did read daddy kink in the tags. welcome to the hot mess that is my first geralt/jaskier fic, or, as i like to call it, **bitcher**. get it? witcher/bard? pls feel free to use that elsewhere._
> 
> _before you get started, the end notes are gonna have a nice fat chunk of warnings about some tags, namely our gender issues/roles and the mess that is yennefer. i swear, i want to love her very badly and she deserves so much better. the non-con tag is bc of her. we'll chat about that._
> 
> _for now, please note that i've made this canon adjacent and i have borrowed a lot of dialogue directly from the Netflix adaptation of the Witcher; it's mostly present in the first couple chapters. i follow canon up to the events of episode four and then split off in my own hot take on it. also, this is beta'd mostly by grammarly and i both hate and love that tool, so mistakes? i don't know them._
> 
> _that is all i have to say for now, please enjoy!_

##  **_(1) Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ **

  
  
  


The first time Geralt laid eyes on his bard, he hadn't a clue as to what that chance meeting would result in. He seemed little more than an annoyance, one Geralt hoped to be rid of quickly. It was destiny, he later reasoned, that inspired Jaskier to persist, and thank the gods he did.

*

“Need a hand?” a voice called behind him.

Geralt gritted his teeth and kept walking, hoping that the bard would accept his silence for dismissal enough.

And yet, the boy caught up with him. “I’ve got two,” he added, a little out of breath.

“Go away,” Geralt said simply.

“I won’t be but silent back-up,” the boy said anyway, falling into step beside Geralt.

Geralt looked over Roach’s back and rolled his eyes, wondering in what world _go away_ sounded like an invitation. The boy did not turn around or seem eager to make himself scarce and Geralt decided to resume ignoring him, hoping that that would work after all.

“Look, I heard your note, and maybe real adventures would make better stories,” the boy continued. “And you, sir, smell chock-full of them.”

Geralt thinned his lips distastefully. He did not want help from most people, but especially not this boy. In the tavern, he’d been able to smell the boy’s scent-blocking potions from across the room, a foul juxtaposition of pungent herbs and a vague sweetness that betrayed an Omega. He disliked company from anyone, but young Omegas in silk clothes and flimsy shoes were ten times as likely to do nothing but get hurt or in his way.

“Amongst other things,” the boy carried on, “I mean, what is that, is that onion?”

_Onion,_ Geralt repeated in his head.

“It doesn’t matter, whatever it is, you smell like death, and destiny, and heroics, and heartbreak!” the boy concluded with triumph.

“It’s onion,” Geralt replied coldly.

“Right, yeah,” the boy answered. “Yeah.”

Geralt continued walking, hoping the boy would get the very obvious hint and leave.

“Ooh, I could be your barker!” the boy prattled on. “Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the – the Butcher of Blaviken!”

Geralt set his jaw, stopped, and turned back, transferring Roach’s reins into his other hand. “Come here,” he said, gesturing with a hand.

“Yeah?” the boy asked, stepping closer like an _idiot._

Geralt drove an undercut into the boy’s gut. The boy shouted as he fell back, dust flying at his stumbling, and he staggered to the ground, bag and lute falling in front of him while he wheezed. Satisfied, Geralt turned again and began walking, encouraging his horse with a soft voice.

*

Geralt was not rid of Jaskier, despite a fairly solid blow to the gut. He later wondered if he’d pulled that punch a little too much. The devils of Dol Blathanna, truly just the smitted elves who were bitter and starving without their homeland, dealt with, Geralt left with Jaskier still following him. He intended to do the decent thing and see Jaskier safely back to the town of Posada and then be glad to see the back of him as he moved on to the next town.

The next morning as he was leaving, Jaskier caught up with him.

“You nearly forgot me!” he cried, falling into step beside Roach.

“I wasn’t forgetting,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier gasped. “You were leaving me on purpose! How could you? I got you that contract yesterday in the first place, and I’ve already written two wonderful songs about you! We’ll make incredible partners, dear Witcher!”

Geralt grunted. He’d lose Jaskier in the next town.

*

For four whole months, Geralt couldn’t be rid of Jaskier. Every time he tried to sneak out at dawn, Jaskier caught up with him. It was as ridiculous as Jaskier’s fine shoes, which he spent ages complaining about the state of every night they camped as they weren’t meant for walking anywhere but a paved town. His constant chatter drove Geralt to anxiety and the salve he put on his scent glands twice a day made his head hurt and his jaw clench; it _stank._ It was, unfortunately, an incredibly wise thing to do for an Omega traveling by themselves, which Geralt kept hoping Jaskier would resume doing. Humans wouldn’t smell through it, nor would they be able to smell it once it dried, so wearing it was quite intelligent of an otherwise foolish boy. Thus, no matter how bad it smelled, he couldn’t tell Jaskier to stop wearing it. 

Near the end of summer, as they were passing through the south of Redania, Jaskier finally brought up parting ways.

“I admit I’m a tad homesick,” he claimed, “and we’re naught but a day’s walk from Oxenfurt, so I think I’ll head there and catch up with old friends.”

Geralt only grunted; it was a relieved grunt, though he doubted Jaskier would be able to tell the difference. He did not believe Jaskier was homesick, as he could smell the beginnings of a heat season on him, and he was glad to be rid of him before he actually began to smell enticing under his salves. Geralt did not want to learn what an Omega entering their season smelled like under such potent herbs.

The first night Geralt camped without Jaskier, it was strange to hear nothing but the wildlife. Even the birds were silent. Geralt skinned and cooked a rabbit, then ate it all by himself and stared broodingly into the fire. Roach knickered absently behind him.

“I’m not singing for you,” Geralt said to her, and that was that.

*

Geralt had never traveled extensively with an Omega before Jaskier. He never spent any significant time with one; it took an hour to be satisfied with a sex worker, no more than that, and that was the extent of his dealings with Omegas usually. With Jaskier gone, Geralt checked himself into a brothel, satisfied his base urges, and set off on his solitary journey again, glad to be alone.

He wound up going north again, following an aimless path as he sought out beasts to kill. There wasn’t much work those days, and for the first time, Geralt had to admit to himself that there had been one good thing to traveling with Jaskier; he could often persuade an innkeeper into giving them a free room for an evening of performance, and real beds and hot baths were a luxury Geralt could rarely afford. Sex workers were much more expensive, but much more worth it, he reasoned.

Still, the beds were nice.

He cured a Striga in Temeria and saw to the death of one of the worst monsters humanity could face; Ostrit, a grown man who loved a child. Temeria’s king feigned Ostrit’s greatness to the people, and Geralt could care less what they thought of the man, he’d killed him. He wiped out a nest of Kikimore in Carrera and that paid a hefty sack of coin. He killed a Leucrote that was living in the swamps of Ysgith, then picked up four contracts in Kagen and paid for time with another sex worker, as well as a full night in an inn. He reasoned that Roach deserved a real stable for once, but when he eased into the hot bath the innkeeper provided, he relented that he’d missed the luxury, too.

Winter fell and Geralt filled his purse, lightened it, and filled it again as he continued his wanderings. In Cidaris, he stopped by a blacksmith to have his armor repaired, and wandered into an inn only to hear a familiar singing voice.

“On a night so black it mocked the dawn, in a spring where a mother was brought to mourn, our fabled hero White Wolf fought, ‘gainst a restless spirit, drowned, distraught!”

Geralt began to back out of the tavern, but across the room, Jaskier had already seen him. He let out a triumphant shout and moved into his next verse with gusto, and Geralt made a sour face and just headed for the bar, knowing that if he left, Jaskier would find him anyway.

“Your strongest ale,” Geralt requested of the barmaid.

“Hey, ho, and off he goes, to best your villains and your foes! Hey, ho, and off he goes! Our Witcher is here, don’t’chu know!”

Cheers erupted through the tavern and Geralt jerked his hood up even as Jaskier was grabbing him by the arm and bringing him out into the middle of the room. Geralt ripped his arm free of Jaskier’s grip with an angry growl, but Jaskier and his ridiculously low sense of self-preservation only started dancing a circle around him as he played and sang.

“Hey, ho, a beast brought low! Hey, ho, what fear, a Witcher doesn’t know! Hey, ho – Hey!”

Geralt pushed out of the clapping crowd and back to the bar. Jaskier sighed heavily, but carried on his song. Geralt dropped onto a stool with a grunt and grabbed the mug of ale the barmaid put in front of him. He drank half of it in one long gulp and the barmaid wordlessly put a second mug in front of him. Geralt nodded gratefully to her and put the coin for both cups on the counter.

Another minstrel took up playing, he guessed, as Jaskier dropped into a seat next to him, face flushed and eyes bright. Geralt growled under his breath in annoyance.

“A mead, my good lady!” Jaskier called to the maid. “Geralt, my dear friend, it’s been much too long!”

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt muttered.

“Tosh,” Jaskier said. “You’ve seen my backside and I’ve seen yours, that’s enough to make us friends.”

Geralt looked at him sideways, then drained the rest of his first mug so he could start on his second. Two mugs of ale would barely knock his vision hazy, and suddenly he wanted to be very, very drunk.

“How have you been since I last saw you?” Jaskier asked. “You look – uh, pardon my frankness, you look knackered.”

“Fine,” Geralt grumbled.

“I’ve also been fine,” Jaskier added, completely unprompted. “I’m quite eager for more adventure!”

Geralt, mug halfway to his mouth, stopped and looked at him squarely. “You’re not following me again,” he said flatly.

“But I must!” Jaskier countered. “Geralt, the people, they love my work, but it would be boorish of me to continue playing the same old songs for them night after night!”

“So write more songs,” Geralt retorted.

“Which I plan to do!” Jaskier insisted, and he poked Geralt in the chest. “After gaining inspiration from you.”

Geralt looked down at where Jaskier’s finger touched him, then turned to face the counter again. He brought his mug to his lips, drained it, and got up.

“Wow,” Jaskier said as Geralt left, “that’s already a song in and of itself! See you in the morning, dear Witcher!”

Geralt, his face sour again, muttered, “Fuck.”

*

The most annoying thing about Jaskier was that, under the salve, he smelled subtly sweet. Geralt could never place it, likely because of the salve, and that drove him mad. He wanted to wash the ointment from Jaskier's skin and bury his nose in his neck until he deduced what made up Jaskier's scent.

Geralt hated not knowing things.

“Would you call that thing a spider or a scorpion?” Jaskier asked, tapping the point of his quill against his face and getting ink all over his chin.

“I would call it a kikimore,” Geralt answered, tossing a bone into the fire.

“Yes, but that’s so hard to rhyme,” Jaskier said. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. “And scorpion is better?”

“Ruffian,” Jaskier replied immediately.

Geralt shut his mouth, then shook his head and glared into the fire. “Spider,” he grunted.

“Spider,” Jaskier muttered, scribbling that down.

He put down his quill and journal, then picked up his lute. He began to hum, changing his tune a few times, then began to pick at chords and hummed along under his breath.

Geralt snapped another bone of the hare he’d caught for their supper and set about sucking out the marrow. Jaskier had hardly touched his portion and Geralt kept glaring at it.

“Are you going to eat that?” he asked gruffly, pointing with the bone.

Jaskier glanced at the wooden plate. “No, you can have it,” he said, focusing again on his lute.

Geralt huffed. He pushed off his rear, standing up partially, and grabbed the lute.

“Hey!” Jaskier gasped.

Geralt dropped back onto the ground and put the lute next to him. “Eat,” he said.

“Why, Geralt,” Jaskier said with a soft laugh, “I didn’t know you cared.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I don’t want it going to waste,” he said, popping the bone back into his mouth.

Jaskier snorted, but he picked up his plate and began picking at the meat. Geralt watched him for a second, until he stuck a finger in his mouth and sucked it clean. Then, Geralt dropped his gaze and stared into the fire.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Jaskier asked, smacking his lips. “You look particularly congested tonight.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt growled.

“If you’re sure,” Jaskier said, snapping a bone and sticking it in his mouth.

Geralt watched his cheeks hollow and his lips purse, shadowed beautifully by the firelight. Jaskier popped the bone from his mouth and licked his lips, then dropped it to pick up a piece of meat, which he put into his mouth with his fingers. His fingers sprung free with an audible sound, too, flecks of moisture shooting from his lips and a thin thread of saliva connecting his mouth and fingers for a brief second before sagging and breaking.

Geralt suddenly and viscerally regretted making Jaskier eat.

Jaskier glanced up, then caught his gaze. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Ink,” Geralt told him.

Jaskier touched his chin, then laughed when he saw his black fingers. He carefully pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, then cleaned his face and hands.

“Have I got it?” he asked.

Geralt grunted and looked down. He mostly smelled the forest, the fire, and the hare, but Jaskier wasn’t very far from him and his scent-blocker potion was dulled. Under the ink and the juice on Jaskier’s hands as he ate, Geralt could smell just a faint change to his scent and, after a few years off traveling with Jaskier, he knew what it was even if he had no flower or spice yet to compare it to.

“We’ll head east tomorrow,” he said. “There’s supposedly a Fleder around Gulet bothering farmers.”

“What is that?” Jaskier asked, licking his lips.

“Ugly,” Geralt just said. “Finish up, I want to get an early start.”

“I’m not keeping you up,” Jaskier retorted.

Geralt looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. 

“What?” Jaskier said.

“If I leave you alone, you’re likely to get eaten by something,” Geralt said. “Eat and get in your tent so I can have some peace of mind.”

“Then you do care!” Jaskier accused with a laugh.

Geralt soured his face and lurched to his feet, then wordlessly shoved into his tent. He stripped off his swords and unrolled his bedroll to flop onto it. Outside, he heard Jaskier sigh, then the fire was put out and Jaskier retreated into his tent. Geralt rolled onto his side and tucked an arm under his head, glaring into the darkness.

The odor of scent-blocking salve wafted from Jaskier’s tent into Geralt’s. Geralt instinctively bared his teeth and started to growl, but clamped his jaw shut and forced himself to ignore the smell. It at least covered Jaskier’s fertile scent.

Geralt could already predict that Jaskier had just a month until his heat. He would ensure they were near Oxenfurt for that time so Jaskier could reach friends before it hit.

On occasion, Geralt’s mind wandered to what Jaskier did to occupy himself during heat. There was always at least two months if not more between Jaskier leaving and one of them stumbling across each other again, so Geralt had no clue if Jaskier had an Alpha that fucked him through it, or if he stayed with family and remained celibate, or he had sex with Omegas or Betas. Geralt had smelled sex on Jaskier often to know he had little preference for a gender or designation. He could be having orgies for all Geralt knew.

He didn’t often think of these things, and when he did, he always cast it out of his mind and resolved to never let it resurge in his thoughts. Geralt typically was good at keeping his mind from wandering, but then again, he didn’t suffer close company with Omegas often, let alone Omegas cycling through their fertility.

Jaskier’s distinct scent remained a mystery. Geralt hated mysteries.

*

Jaskier walked into Oxenfurt with a grin and a spring in his step. The wonders of spring around him showed and he had the itch of an oncoming heat at the base of his spine. He’d visit Bram soon, but he needed to stop by Triss’s place first.

“Ah, my little sparrow!” Triss squealed, running out of her cottage as Jaskier neared. “Look at you!”

She caught him in a hug and swept him off his feet. Jaskier laughed, burying his nose in her thick, fragrant hair. Triss, still squealing in excitement, swung him around, then put him down again and grabbed his face, pinching his cheeks.

“Oh, you’ve grown!” she cried.

“Gods, Mother, it’s only been a few months,” Jaskier teased. “Stop that, you’re ruining my reputation.”

Triss just giggled and patted his cheek. Jaskier laughed again and pushed closer to hug her once more.

“I like your mustache,” Triss chuckled against his ear.

“It’s not a mustache,” Jaskier mumbled. “Yet.”

Triss pulled back, her nose and eyes crinkling with her smile, and she pinched his cheek again. “It is,” she insisted. “It’s a little baby mustache.”

Jaskier mocked a sober expression and stroked the fine hairs lining his upper lip and chin. “Perhaps I will grow it out,” he mused. “I would look quite dashing with a fine beard, don’t you think?”

“You would!” Triss answered, catching him by the shoulders. “Quite the catch, you’d be.”

“Am!” Jaskier gasped. “Woman, you wound me!”

Triss laughed and hugged him a third time. “Guess what?” she murmured into his hair.

“What?” Jaskier mumbled back, limp on her shoulder.

“The artist from Aretuza agreed to see you,” Triss told him.

Jaskier jerked back, his eyes wide. “You mean –”

Triss grinned. “Took quite a bit of conniving, but, yeah, he’ll do what you need.”

Jaskier launched into another hug, squealed himself, his voice cracking a little. Triss lifted him off his feet and Jaskier even kissed her. She chuckled and put him back down, pinched his cheek, then pulled him to the door of her cottage.

“Now,” she said, her hand sliding around his waist, “let’s get your salve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _geralt is Learning Things and he Hates it. jaskier is a Blessing and a Sweet Sunshine Boy. we also love triss in this household._
> 
> _real quick!!! yennefer!!! oh god!! she's coming in chapter 3 (i think??? i don't know my own shit leave me alone) and it's canon-compliant, y'all. i hate that episode so much. the whole thing feels so rapey. i hate the way she's written in the Netflix show bc she feels like all the misogynistic stereotypes rolled into one; disabled woman is miserable bc she's **not beautiful bc she's disabled** , goes through huge transformation to become beautiful, realizes she can't have kids and suddenly feels Empty for it. i almost passed over this fandom entirely bc of how yennefer's disability was handled. it really stung that yennefer had to transform in order to suddenly become physically attractive rather than like breaking down ableistic standards and recognizing she was already fucking gorgeous?? and powerful?? also the idea that a woman is Without Hope bc she's barren? fuck that nonsense. thirdly, the interactions between her and geralt feel dubious to me and that's how i've protrayed them in this fic._  
>  _that being said, this is just my take on it!! i plan on writing aus and giving her the life she deserves. i also haven't played the games or read the books so i have no idea how it's handled there; netflix's adaptation technically is its own canon, so i assume all that shit is netflix's fault . they can suck my dick and i will suck yennefer's bc she deserves it._
> 
> _happier topics, y'all, magical gender confirmation. it's fucking magic, there's no reason the artist dude from aretuza can't magic up some confirmation methods. ergo, we trans people exist in fantasy still. you're welcome._  
>  _jaskier, my precious boy, identifies as a Mess. he uses he/him pronouns but i think of him as bigender nonbinary/masculine bc gender is more like a big ball gendy-gendy nonsense instead of a line. yes, "big ball of timey-wimey" thingy reference. (in case you did not know) i, an irl Mess, use they/them pronouns and am nonbinary/masculine, so i'm basing his gender on mine bc nobody can stop me. later in the fic he has sex via front hole penetration bc that's cool with him now and then. again, based on my experiences. not all AFAB trans people are comfortable with that and that's okay._
> 
> _misogyny is tagged bc of yennefer and period-typical attitudes (gross, i'm sorry, but they're there), but also geralt. geralt is subtly rude and now and then makes assumptions about jaskier bc he is an omega. jaskier bonks him on the forehead for this by the end._
> 
> _that is the end of my warnings!! as of posting this chapter, i have 8 of 9 chapters written and 9 is an epilogue, so i can tell you rn that i will be posting updates to this fic weekly! probably thursdays, not wednesdays, but whatevs. so, see you next week!_


	2. Come Quell (My) Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _once again, warning for borrowed dialogue. this was beta'd by grammarly, who hates fantasy words like "Calanthe's", but that's okay, bc i hate grammarly_

##  **_(2) Come Quell (My) Hunger_ **

  
  


Geralt had endured many an unpleasant thing, and walking from an iced-over lake to the tavern where his contract holder was waiting soaked in Selkimore guts was near the middle of the list. There were worse smells to be surrounded by.

Geralt kicked the doors open rather than use his hands and smear said guts everywhere. He immediately inhaled sharply and ground his teeth together, tasting such a worse smell than Selkimore guts.

Jaskier’s scent-blocking salve.

He strode inside, the crowd of villagers parting for him as they looked on with wide eyes and hands flying to cover their faces. Jaskier was sat next to the man who’d contracted Geralt, a wide grin on his face.

“See?” Jaskier said, falling into delighted laughter.

“What’s that stench?” the contractor asked.

“Selkimore guts,” Geralt answered, assuming that had been obvious; the man had seen him be eaten. “Had to get it from the inside. I’ll take what I’m owed.”

The contractor went for a coin purse as Jaskier stood up, a smirk already on his mouth. Geralt braced himself.

“Toss a coin to your witcher!” Jaskier began the godforsaken song. “O Valley of Plenty, whoa-oh!”

The rest of the tavern joined Jaskier in the next line as Jaskier moved around the table and almost touched Geralt’s shoulder, pulling back at the last second. Geralt strode away with his coin, highly ruffled and twice as irritated now that he had two unpleasant stenches in his nose, in search of beer.

Jaskier followed him, unfortunately. Geralt got a mug from the barkeep, handing over some of his newly earned coin, as Jaskier came up behind him.

“You’re welcome,” Jaskier said pointedly. “And now, Witcher –”

Geralt wiped his hands off fruitlessly and ignored him in favor of the beer. He glanced at Jaskier once, then quickly away, but Jaskier leaned against the counter, carelessly taking a beer for himself.

“It’s time to repay _your_ debt,” he concluded.

Geralt started to drink and was quickly reminded of the Selkimore remains still on his mouth; he leaned to the side to spit it out. He stared ahead then, abruptly realizing that _Jaskier_ was almost on eye-level with him. He looked sideways, heavily confused, but Jaskier wore no lifts on his shoes and he stood casually at least six inches taller than he’d been the last time Geralt had seen him.

“What debt, you’re probably asking yourself in your head right now,” Jaskier continued, “well, I’ll tell you. I’ve made you _famous,_ Witcher.”

Geralt put the beer down and leaned on the counter, wondering if he was shorter or Jaskier really had gotten taller.

“By rights, I should be claiming ten percent of all your coin,” Jaskier prattled on, “but instead, what I’m asking for is a teeny, teeny-weeny little favor.”

Geralt looked at him, disregarding the mystery of Jaskier’s height. He glared. Jaskier looked unperturbed. Geralt exhaled heavily, then started counting his coin, wondering how much enough baths to get Selkimore insides completely off him would cost. Jaskier hummed a prompt. 

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt said plainly.

“For one measly night of service, you will gain a cornucopia of earthly delights,” Jaskier said anyway, again showing his lack of concern for ignoring blatant dismissals.

Jaskier carried on, describing the night of service he wanted Geralt’s help in, but Geralt firmly blocked him out, putting his coin back in his bag. He strode off, in search of a bath. He could probably afford two, but he'd need an hour with a sex worker afterwards, as running into Jaskier always made him both angry and horny.

“Food, women, and wine, Geralt!” Jaskier shouted after him.

Geralt stopped, clenching his jaw, then turned around. Jaskier raised his eyebrows, a slight smile on his lips.

Free food, Geralt reasoned. “Fine,” he grunted.

He turned again and carried. Jaskier followed him.

“This way!” he crowed, almost skipping up the steps to the tavern’s second floor.

Geralt clenched his jaw and followed him. The bath was at least that way, he reminded himself.

A tavern maid filled the bath with hot water and Geralt dumped his swords, then stripped off, leaving his disgusting clothes to wash after. He climbed into the water, then began washing himself roughly and rapidly, wasting no time in getting the smears of blood and organs off himself. In a few minutes, the water was red and smelled foul, and Geralt got out and covered himself with a towel so the maid could drag the tub out to dump it. She came back in a few more minutes, the tub filled again, and Geralt gave her a short grunt of appreciation before getting back into the hot water and finally relaxing for a second. He put his feet up and rested his head back against the wall of the tub.

And then the door burst open. Geralt surged into an upright position, feet dropping into the water, grabbing the sides of the tub, and Jaskier pushed into the room. He had a bucket and a bag, one in each arm, and the bucket was sloshing water.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Geralt demanded.

“Helping!” Jaskier said, shutting the door with his foot.

“Get out,” Geralt growled.

“You smell awful,” Jaskier just retorted, putting down the bucket and bag on a table. “And if you’re going to escort me tonight to Princess Pavetta’s betrothal dinner, you must smell at least palatable.”

Geralt sat forward, grabbing the sides of the tub again. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Not that your natural scent isn’t appealing,” Jaskier added, babbling as he did, “it’s just a wee bit hampered by the death and heroics thing at the moment.”

“ _Whose_ betrothal dinner?” Geralt snapped.

“Princess Pavetta,” Jaskier said, rolling up his sleeves. “Did I not mention that?”

“ _Princess_ Pavetta?” Geralt repeated, now twice as angry as Jaskier usually made him (and doubly horny, as he was naked and Jaskier was _right there;_ he had unfairly attractive hands and wrists.) “Princess!”

“Of Cintra,” Jaskier said. “It’s just a short jaunt over to the city and then to the castle –”

“I am not following you to a princess’s betrothal dinner!” Geralt snarled.

Jaskier snorted, then picked up his bucket. Geralt glared at him for a second, and then Jaskier was, without a moment’s hesitation, dumping the contents of the bucket on his head.

Geralt snorted, feeling like a trapped bull, and wiped the water from his eyes, then quickly realized that it wasn’t just water, there was something _in it_ that smelled harsh and abrasive and _minty._ Rather like Jaskier’s scent-blocker, actually. He growled and shook his head to get the shit off him, fruitless as that was.

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest,” Jaskier carried on without a care in the world. “It is one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world, how hard could it be?”

Geralt wiped his face and grabbed onto the sides of the tub, then wiped off bubbles from his shoulder and sank into the water, dejected and frustrated. He glanced over his shoulder at Jaskier, then glared into the water again.

“I’m not your friend,” he insisted stubbornly.

“Oh? Oh, really?” Jaskier answered. “You usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?”

Geralt sat back, putting his arms back on the sides of the tub, and glared at Jaskier directly. He wouldn't let _anyone_ rub _anything_ onto his backside, friend or not.

“Yeah,” Jaskier chuckled, “exactly, that’s what I thought.”

Jaskier crossed the room again, wiping his hands on a towel, and Geralt glared at his back the whole time. There were many things he wanted to do in that moment, not limited to throwing Jaskier out the room or yanking him into the water as well to get that fucking salve off. Geralt frequently fantasized about doing such.

“Every lord, knight, and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal,” Jaskier continued, striding over to his bag and digging in it. “The Lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!”

He turned around and tossed a pinch of some sort of salt into Geralt’s bath with a flourish. The water splashed, flecks hitting Geralt’s chest and chin, and he glared at Jaskier as understanding dawned on him.

“How many of these lords want to kill you?” he asked.

“Hard to say,” Jaskier admitted; at least the fool was honest. “One sort of stops keeping count after a while. Wives, husbands, concubines, sons, daughters, fathers or mothers – Sometimes.”  
  


Geralt watched him go around the room again and jutted out his jaw as he pictured Jaskier with a lord’s _mother._ He did not like this train of thought.

Jaskier turned back and finally seemed to notice that Geralt was looking at him with murder. He gasped, then dropped onto a stool by the bath.

“Yeah, that face,” he said, gesturing to Geralt dramatically, “ _scary_ face! No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that!”

Geralt shook his head and leaned to the side to grab the ale the maid had left him. He lifted the mug to drink it down in one, then Jaskier tutted and took it from him.

“On second thoughts,” he said, getting up with the mug while Geralt clenched his jaw and fist, “might want to lay off the Cintran ale, a clear head would be best.”

Geralt growled under his breath. “I will not suffer tonight sober just because _you_ hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry,” he said firmly.

He was still envisioning Jaskier fucking the ladies and dukes of Cintra and it was still making his blood boil.

“I’m not killing anyone,” he said, more to himself than to Jaskier. “Not over the petty squabbles of men.”

Because that was it, wasn’t it? Love and romance and jealousy, most especially, were the domain of pettiness, meant just for humans. Witchers were not humans. 

Witchers did not get _jealous._

“Yes, yes, yes,” Jaskier replied, quite unconcerned apparently. “You never get involved. Except you actually _do,_ all of the time.”

Geralt jerked to look over his shoulder, then again looked at Jaskier angrily as he walked back to the other side of the room and leaned against the wall. Geralt was two seconds away from standing up and grabbing Jaskier to get him in the bath, too.

“Ugh,” Jaskier sighed. “Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbearably crotchety and cantankerous?”

Geralt wrinkled his nose and pulled his arms back into the water, slouching into it and wondering what the fuck kind of soap Jaskier had dumped on his head. It smelled fancy and Geralt hated fancy, ergo, he could blame his frustration on it. At any rate, the moment was gone, Jaskier was out of reach and he had changed the subject.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, leaning back against the tub and lifting his arms again, “when they slow and get killed.”

Jaskier was standing with his chin lifted slightly. Geralt clenched his jaw and forced himself to hold Jaskier’s gaze rather than look at the pale, unblemished skin of his throat. He hadn't noticed, probably because he hadn't looked, but Jaskier had taken off his doublet and was left in a plain, albeit filagreed, shirt. The neck of it was open and Jaskier’s collarbones showed, as well as several inches of his chest. He had hair, where most male Omegas Geralt had seen were smooth-skinned. Geralt almost wondered if that was the fault of the salve or his natural growth of both.

“Come on,” Jaskier said with a smile, hands on the table behind him in a way that pushed his shoulders back and his hips out, “you must want something for yourself when all this monster-hunting nonsense is over.”

Geralt’s jaw ticked. “I want nothing,” he said.

Jaskier exhaled and pushed off the table. A hand went to his hip, while he examined the nails of the other for a brief moment. His shirt collar fell away from his throat and Geralt’s gaze snapped to where he knew Jaskier’s scent gland was, slathered in the foul salve. He recognized the stance. Under Jaskier’s salve, his scent was changed. Geralt knew that slight shift in odors as well. A growl began in his chest and he bit down hard to stop it from leaving his throat.

“Well,” Jaskier said, “who knows? Maybe someone out there,” he said, dropping down to lean on the tub in front of Geralt with a slight smile, “will want you.”

Geralt gritted his teeth still. Jaskier was within reach again. His shirt was open at the neck, and his throat was exposed in what a fool would think an invitation. Geralt would not sully Jaskier’s intelligence to think it was intentional. Jaskier was just naturally a slut.

“I need no one,” Geralt insisted, then lifting his gaze to look Jaskier in the eye and hoping his message would finally ring true to the fool bard. “And the last thing I want,” he continued, serious and sober, “is someone needing me.”

Jaskier just smiled. “And yet,” he said, “here we are.”

Geralt grunted and looked away, refusing to acknowledge the way Jaskier was showing his throat. Jaskier sighed. He stood and returned to the table, then a bar of soap collided with Geralt’s chest.

“Try using one of these for once in your life,” he advised.

Geralt took it and contemplated it, then sniffed it. He curled his lip as he recognized the scent Jaskier had dumped on his head. It wasn’t quite the same as the scent-blocking salve, but it was definitely something similar. Jaskier threw a rag at him then and Geralt caught that. Reluctantly, he dipped it into the water, then lathered the cloth with the soap and started to scrub. He looked around, searching the floor, then realized what was missing from the room and grabbed the sides of the tub.

“Jaskier,” he growled, “where the fuck are my clothes?”

“Ah,” Jaskier said, and the tense air in the room snapped easily, no more than a hair. “Well, they were sort of covered in selkimore guts, so I had them sent away to be washed.”

Geralt growled as he realized the maid must have grabbed them when she fetched the dirty water.

“Anyway, you’re not going tonight as a witcher,” Jaskier added with a smirk.

Geralt thinned his lips, pushing out his jaw, and wondered what the fuck he has to do to convince Jaskier to leave him the fuck alone. For a half-second, he considered grabbing Jaskier by the front of his open shirt and – Well, he’d fantasized about washing the scent-blocking salve off him again. That was nothing new and wouldn’t give Jaskier a reason to leave.

Not with the way Jaskier was showing Geralt his throat.

“Fine,” Geralt grumbled. “At least explain to me how you’re _tall_ now.”

“Tall?” Jaskier repeated. “Excuse me, I have always been tall!”

“You’re taller!” Geralt accused. “Why?”

Jaskier laughed. “Well, that tends to happen when you grow,” he said teasingly before turning back.

Geralt squinted at his back suspiciously. His bard was lying, and Geralt had no clue what for. 

Of course, it wasn’t any of his business. And Jaskier was not _his_ bard. Geralt sank lower into the water with a sour puss, as Jaskier called his expression.

Jaskier, at least, paid for Geralt’s three baths. From the tavern, Jaskier directed Geralt into the main city and to a tailor. Geralt growled constantly as the tailor-fitted him into an expensive outfit, which Jaskier, again, paid for, and Geralt was left wondering how much money the fucking bard had gotten in the past few months since Geralt last saw him. They stayed at another inn, this one actually fancy, and Jaskier tortured Geralt with his company for another bath.

“This is the only way to guarantee you'll actually get this done,” Jaskier insisted, washing Geralt’s hair for him.

It’s the sheer strength of Geralt’s base instincts concerning Jaskier that kept him from grabbing him by his clothes and flipping him for touching his head. Geralt just sank into the water and glared forcefully as Jaskier’s nails dragged across his scalp.

“When was the last time you washed this mop?” Jaskier added.

Geralt only grunted. 

“God, that’s disgusting,” Jaskier muttered. “I think something died in here.”

“Probably,” Geralt muttered.

He’d vehemently deny it until his dying day, but the experience of having his hair washed by Jaskier was not strictly miserable.

Geralt felt like a crimped and ruffled dog with his clothes too tight and his hair pulled into as neat of a style as Jaskier could get it walking into the Queen’s palace at the city center. Jaskier was beaming at his side and Geralt was working very hard to keep his face stony rather than scowling the way he wanted to.

“Right, so stick close to me, look mean, and pretend you’re a mute,” Jaskier told him. “Can’t have anyone finding out who you are.”

“GERALT OF RIVIA, THE MIGHTY WITCHER!” a familiar voice immediately shouted.

“Oh, shit,” Jaskier sighed.

An old acquaintance, Mousesack, strode up to Geralt with a mug of ale and a wide grin. Geralt remained stony.

“I haven’t seen you since the plague,” Mousesack said as he neared.

“Good times, Mousesack,” Geralt answered dryly.

Mousesack laughed. “I’ve missed your sour complexion,” he said, waving his mug to gesture. “I feared this would be a dull affair, but with the White Wolf here, perhaps all is not lost!”

He touched Geralt’s clothes and Geralt restrained himself from lashing out. He was already incredibly uncomfortable and Mousesack was making it so much worse.

“Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader?” Mousesack asked.

Geralt just looked over his shoulder and glared at Jaskier. 

“What?” Jaskier said, as if he were totally innocent.

“Walk with me,” Mousesack offered, already pulling Geralt away from Jaskier.

Geralt shot him another glance, tense and jaw tight, but Jaskier was walking away to join the band already gathered in a corner. No angry-looking spouses, parents, or children were approaching him yet. Geralt could keep an eye on him throughout the night.

Geralt grabbed an ale the first chance he had as Mousesack walked with him. Mousesack started a conversation, as he did, and Geralt listened and answered shortly and crassly, as he did, but he kept an eye on Jaskier. It took barely five minutes for a stout man with an angry red face to walk up to him and for Jaskier to start displaying his nerves.

Geralt could smell his anxiety across the room. He was well aware that he did not need to be so in tune with Jaskier’s scent. Witchers did not get mixed in the petty affairs of humans.

Geralt cut Mousesack off in the middle of a sentence and strode off, leaving his friend to scoff in surprise. The angry lord was pushing Jaskier against a wall already. Geralt pushed through the crowd, unconcerned for the mugs he jostled and shoulders he bumped, and neared in time to hear the man demand Jaskier show him his ass for proof of his presence in his wife's bed chambers.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called, pure relief in his voice.

Geralt reluctantly put a hand on the lord’s shoulder and forced a smile. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said, his teeth aching to speak so politely. “This happens all the time.”

Jaskier looked confused as well as relieved. Geralt was not going to show him mercy in saving his apparently pimply ass.

“It’s true,” Geralt said, with sobriety and pomp, “he has the face of a cad and a coward –”

Jaskier’s relief turned to offense in two seconds.

“– But, truth be known, he was –” Geralt paused to look Jaskier in the eye and took a moment to _relish_ the first excuse he could come up with, “– kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.”

Geralt suddenly enjoyed being at this betrothal dinner.

“Well, that’s –” Jaskier stammered, clearly torn as he weighed his options. “True,” he sighed.

“Apologies,” the lord said, sounding either very horrified or a little frightened of Geralt’s height difference – both were possible –, “here, drown your sorrows on me, eunuch.”

He tossed a coin to Jaskier and quickly left. Geralt’s lips were curled up and he realized he was smiling. His face hurt.

“Oh, wow,” Jaskier began heavily, “thank you, thank you _so_ much!”

Geralt was really smiling.

“First of all, you hog all the fanfare, then you go and ruin my courtly reputation!” Jaskier fussed, putting his hands on his hips and jutting his chin out at Geralt.

Geralt stopped smiling before Jaskier could notice and just raised his eyebrows. “I saved your life,” he said smugly, keeping the pleased note about how Jaskier would not be chasing anyone that evening to himself. “You’re on your own from now on. Try not to get any daggers in your back before dawn.”

Jaskier huffed. Geralt almost smiled again, very, very pleased with himself.

Then there was fanfare and Queen Calanthe was arriving. Geralt knew before he turned around something was amiss and when he saw her, she was covered in blood. Not her own, he assumed. Jaskier gave Geralt one quick glare before hurrying off to join the band, stepping onto a ledge where he would be better seen, as Calanthe neared the high table.

“Bard, music!” she ordered.

Jaskier opened his mouth and began something that Geralt assumed would be regal and beautiful, only Calanthe interrupted.

“No, no, no, a jig! You can save that bloody maudlin nonsense for my funeral!”

Geralt did smile again as Jaskier changed his tunes, waving to his band to keep up with him. He quickly hid it behind his mug, and though he’d told Jaskier he was on his own, he stayed where he was in that quiet corner of the grand hall, where he could easily refill his tankard and keep an eye on his bard.

Among the inebriated rich brats of boys vying for the Princess’s hand, arguments broke out often and were settled before they got to violence. Geralt watched with amusement as Crach an Craite, the Skelligan offer for Pavetta’s hand and Mousesack’s favorite for the marriage, accused another suitor of being full of bullshit over the number of stings a Manticore had. It was rather amusing.

“Enough!” Calanthe shouted.

The fight stopped. So did Jaskier and the band, unfortunately. The hall got quiet.

Calanthe stepped down from the raised dais of the high table, commanding the air with her haughty gaze. Everyone looked at her, and her gaze landed on Geralt.

Geralt slunk a little lower against the wall, now less amused. He glared in Jaskier’s direction, but Jaskier was looking expectantly at the Queen.

“We have a renowned guest here tonight,” Calanthe called. “Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth.”

“Neither,” Geralt answered.

Manticores had one tail, not two or five.

“Are you callin’ me a liar, old man?” Craite challenged.

“The Butcher of Blaviken bleats utter nonsense!” the other suitor added.

Geralt thinned his lips and flicked his gaze to Jaskier. Jaskier just shook his head, looking pleading. Geralt inhaled and reminded himself that he was here as Jaskier’s guest, and if he spoiled things, Jaskier wouldn’t be invited to play before the Cintran court ever again.

And when he didn’t have to say it out loud, Geralt admitted that he was, after all, Jaskier’s friend.

“Perhaps the lords encountered,” Geralt began, feeling physically ill in groveling this way, “rare… subspecies… of manticore.”

He glanced at Jaskier as the suitors cheered. Jaskier sighed heavily and looked away from him. Geralt turned his gaze back into his mug, hoping to be forgotten and left to drink in peace.

Calanthe just laughed. “Perhaps our esteemed guest,” she repeated, sounding amused and degrading, “would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?!”

Geralt’s jaw ticked again and he shot a glare at Jaskier, who looked nervous all over again. He’d _grovel,_ but humanity’s hatred of elves was not justified and he wouldn’t play part in their racism.

“There was no slaying,” Geralt called over the rising noise of the crowd. “I had my arse kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut when Filavandrel let me go.”

“But the song!” the suitor who slew a two-tailed manticore called as everyone else booed.

“Yeah, the song,” Jaskier agreed with a forced smile.

Geralt did not care about the song.

“At least when Filavandrel’s blade kissed my throat, I didn’t shit myself,” he said. “Which is all I can hope for you, good lords. At your final breath –” he raised his flagon, sarcasm and hostility in every motion and every syllable, “– a shitless death.”

Geralt went to drink and added, “But I doubt it.”

Jaskier glared at Geralt and Geralt glared back. Jaskier knew he disapproved of Cintra’s treatment of the elves and Geralt refused to feel sorry for it. Someone said something to Calanthe and the crowd cheered, then Calanthe took another step down and the hall quieted.

“Any man willing to paint himself in the shadows of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night,” she said. 

Geralt swallowed a mouthful of ale, finding it abruptly sour.

“Come, Witcher,” Calanthe ordered. “Take a seat by my side while I change.”

Geralt grimaced, letting out a short breath. He did not look at Jaskier, but pushed off the wall and followed Calanthe respectfully from the grand hall. The music resumed behind them. Geralt only had to hope that the rumor of Jaskier’s impotence would absolve him from apparent crimes of passion.

“You spared the elves,” Calanthe said as the doors shut behind them.

“Yes,” Geralt replied.

“Why?”

“They did no wrong,” Geralt answered. “Nor were they harming anyone. I kill beasts, not people.”

“Elves are beasts,” Calanthe said. 

Geralt grunted. Calanthe looked at him, then flicked up her eyebrows and walked on.

“You’ll sit with me at the feast,” she said. “But you may return for now if you wish.”

Geralt turned on his heel and left. He heard Calanthe laugh again, sounding more like a hyena than a lioness. He simply reentered the hall, took the long way around the room to reach his favored position in the corner. He took another mug of mead and set about drinking it, watching Jaskier play.

This close, he could easily hear Jaskier’s voice as he sang. He could watch him from anywhere in the hall, but he did actually enjoy Jaskier’s songs. Just not the ones about him.

Calanthe returned eventually. She looked at him pointedly as she neared the high table and Geralt sighed, putting down his mug. He joined her, sparing a glance to the prized Princess whom this whole affair was about.

She looked too young for marriage. She looked a little ill, if Geralt was honest.

“Damn this cursed thing,” Calanthe said as she sat, a hand on her abdomen. “I’d sooner see this night out in armor.”  
  


“As would I,” Geralt agreed, looking over to the back of Jaskier’s head with a tick to the corner of his mouth.

“Indeed,” Calanthe said. “Tell me, how does a Witcher find himself at my daughter’s wedding feast dressed like a …”

She just laughed. Geralt tightened his jaw.

“I’m protecting the bard from vengeful royal cuckolds,” he admitted sourly.

Calanthe huffed. “Idiots, the lot of them. Still, I’m glad of your company, which could prove handy. I have no doubt blood will spill here tonight.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, sighing. “Save the good Queen’s breath,” he retorted, “I’m not for hire as a bodyguard.”

“You were hired just so by the bard,” Calanthe countered.

“I’m helping the idiot free of his coin,” Geralt said, amused with his efforts of _“helping”_ Jaskier so far.

Calanthe lifted an eyebrow. “And he’s the idiot?”

Geralt looked at her, suddenly disgruntled. "What does that mean?" he demanded.

“I’m simply saying,” Calanthe added, ignoring his retort, “surely if all goes to Hells here tonight, I can count on you to strategically remove certain irritants that may present themselves?”

Geralt rolled his eyes again, settling into ignoring her. His eyes found Jaskier again, wondering at what point he could get up.

Calanthe kept talking, however. Geralt sighed and glanced in her direction.

“Hey,” he said, cutting her off, “I can’t help you.”

“So perilously direct,” Calanthe answered, sounding almost amused and it was not amusing in the slightest how eloquent she was being.

Geralt tuned her out, replying where necessary. It was easy to put part of his mind on keeping the Queen happy as much as he was willing to while the rest was occupied watching Jaskier. He couldn’t hear Jaskier’s voice from here, just his music. That disappointed Geralt.

There was more parading of suitors. Several spoke of Pavetta as an object. Geralt regretted coming to the feast with every passing second. Calanthe got tired of the parading and prostrating eventually and called for an interlude.

“Something funny!” she ordered Jaskier.

Jaskier bowed to her with a flourish, then whistled a tune. His band began to play and Jaskier plucked at his lute before singing.

“Oh, fishmonger, oh fishmonger, come quell your daughter’s hunger!”

Geralt resisted a smirk. He knew this one, it was stupid and hilarious. The people knew it, too, and clapped along with the tempo as Jaskier danced around with his lute to the high-paced jig.

“All this peacocking,” Calanthe sighed. “All this because _Alpha_ tradition demands it. If I were an Alpha, I could simply tell the whole lot of them to fuck off, declare outright who Pavetta should marry, and have done with it. Or, better yet, let the poor girl decide her own fate.”

Geralt tilted his head, wondering if he could push his luck and remind her that she was already Queen. He did want to know why, if she was the head of the kingdom, she _couldn’t_ do just that. It made no sense.

“Something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve had to navigate the vagaries of Alpha tradition,” he said instead. “In fact, I’d wager you thrive on it.”

He turned his attention on Jaskier again. Not for the first time, he considered clapping along. He could picture the grin Jaskier would get if he saw Geralt clapping to his music, even if _Fishmonger’s Daughter_ wasn’t one of Jaskier’s originals. It was crass and lewd, and Geralt actually liked Jaskier's more lurid songs.

“Tell me, Witcher,” Calanthe cut into his thoughts, her tone abruptly serious, “why are there so few of you left?”

Geralt jutted out his jaw, taken aback by her question. He hummed, looking off at Jaskier, then sighed and worked his jaw. 

“It is no longer possible to create more of us since the sacking of Kaer Morhen,” he said. 

He contemplated asking her what she thought the reason was, since Cintra had done nothing to help the Witchers during the massacre. 

“Tell me, Your Majesty,” he said instead, driven and reminded of his natural bitterness, “why do you risk your life on the battlefield when you can rest easy on your throne?”

“Because there is a simplicity in killing monsters,” Calanthe answered, her voice and eyes full of nothing but hubris. “Is there not?”

Geralt schooled his features. The self-same excuse that led to a mob invaded his home and slaughtering the only family a Witcher had.

“Seems we are quite the pair, Geralt of Rivia,” Calanthe added.

Geralt clenched his jaw and looked straight ahead with a hum. Perhaps. The people often hated Witchers and tyrants equally.

Jaskier wasn’t playing anymore, his band was in the corner taking a break. Geralt wished he was with them. Someone was eyeing Jaskier and Geralt disliked the look on the man’s face; he had no idea, from this distance, if it was indignation or desire, but he didn't like it. He watched that man, ready to get up at the first excuse to leave Calanthe’s side.

Before the potential cuckold or suitor could get up to confront Jaskier and give Geralt his much-needed excuse, a commotion came from the hall’s entrance and a man in armor entered through a scuffle with the guards. Geralt’s gaze snapped automatically to Jaskier, catching him backed into the corner with his lute held close, as the intruder called for an understanding and entered the middle of the room.

“I have come to claim your daughter’s hand in marriage,” the intruder announced.

Geralt now looked back at Calanthe, then was distracted by Pavetta. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide and full of glittering tears. She looked nearly relieved. Geralt turned his eyes onto Lord Urcheon, suspicious.

“I apologize, Your Majesty!” Urcheon called. “A knight’s oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell.”

Geralt found Jaskier again, habitually, but one of the suitors strode up and knocked the helmet off Urcheon’s head.

Everyone gasped, guards drew their weapons, and Geralt sat forward even. Lord Urcheon had the visage of an animal, with yellow eyes and spines for hair; like a porcupine, or a hedgehog. Geralt had never seen anything like him before, yet he knew a curse when he saw one.

“Witcher,” Calanthe whispered to him, “kill it.”

“No,” Geralt answered calmly.

“Whatever the price!” Calanthe insisted.

“This is no monster,” Geralt replied just as firmly.

“I order you!” Calanthe hissed.

“This knight has only been cursed,” Geralt told her angrily, and was about to remind her what the definition of _monster_ was.

“You’re as useless as the rest of them!” Calanthe snapped. Then she threw out her arm and pointed. “SLAY THIS BEAST!”

Guards attacked. Geralt began to rise, but Lord Urcheon knocked out the first guards to approach him and drew his sword, pointing it at the queen, and shouted to her:

“I come to claim what is rightfully mine; Pavetta, by the Law of Surprise!”

Geralt dropped his ass back into his chair, firmly against meddling with human affairs, he reminded himself. Guards attacked, many against Urcheon alone, and Geralt gritted his teeth as he gripped the table and heard it crack slightly under his hands. He glanced at Calanthe, expecting her to call off the attack, but she didn’t. Urcheon was thrown to the ground, his sword abandoned, and a guard with a pike stepped over him to end him. Pavetta was crying.

Geralt growled under his breath and got up. He drew his sword and as Pavetta cried out, Geralt sliced the pike in two and it fell harmlessly into Urcheon’s hands. Geralt kicked the guard back and stepped across Urcheon, standing between him and the guards, and caught a sad look from Jaskier in the corner. 

Geralt decided he would apologize later that Jaskier would never be invited to play at the Cintran court ever again. He hoped Jaskier had gotten at least some of the coin due for the event before it started, because he doubted Calanthe would pay him now that Geralt had defied her so grievously.

“KILL THEM BOTH!” Calanthe screamed.

Geralt swung into action, feeling at ease now with the rush of adrenaline in his veins and the scent of blood in the air. Urcheon fought well, and a third man, one of the nobles, Geralt hadn't been paying attention, abruptly turned sides and joined them. The Law of Surprise held weight on the Continent.

Geralt turned and his blade crossed with Calanthe’s.

“Stop!” she said, but Geralt was already drawing back. “STOP!”

The fight ceased. Geralt held his sword ready, aware of the exits and of where Jaskier was if he needed to run.

“Duny!” Pavetta abruptly called.

She jogged out into the middle of the now blood-stained hall, lifting her skirts, her shoes clattering in the silence. She ran and embraced Urcheon, who lifted her off her feet with an easily recognizable emotion.

Geralt knew relief.

“I told you to stay away,” Pavetta said as she pulled back from Urcheon’s arms, tearful again.

Geralt looked around, eyeing the men with swords and pikes. Jaskier and the other bards were still in the corner. Above the blood and the aggression and the sweat, Geralt smelled his anxiety again. With the fight paused, he was itching to move once more. Preferably in Jaskier’s direction, as unnecessary and useless as that was.

Urcheon knelt and put down his weapon, which Geralt thought was stupid. “Your Majesty,” he said, “the Witcher speaks the truth.”

Geralt was almost startled; he did what?

“I was cursed as a young boy,” Urcheon added – _Oh._ – “My whole life, a living misery, until the day that I saved your husband, King Roegner, from a certain death.”

Calanthe looked twice as angry at the mention of her husband as she’d been at the Law of Surprise. Geralt glanced around again, tense and uncomfortable.

“By tradition, I chose the Law of Surprise as payment,” Urcheon said. “Whatever windfall he came home to find, would be mine.”

“Oh, the _stupid_ bastard,” Calanthe spat. “Better you had let him die!”

Geralt found this suspicious, also; perhaps Calanthe knew more about her husband's death?

“You knew he’d come,” he said, “and you pushed me to kill him.”

Geralt bared his teeth, disgusted. This was why Witchers did not interfere in the affairs of humans. He turned, striding across the room in a casual way, expressing his need to move while the scent of blood was still in the air, and his desire to be in a better position to grab Jaskier. 

He started thinking about what it meant for Urcheon to claim Pavetta as his wife when he had been a knight before she was born, while the noble that joined them defended the tradition of the Law of Surprise and Calanthe spat on destiny. Pavetta clung to his side, however, love in her eyes and scent. She still looked ill.

“You, Witcher,” Calanthe called, and Geralt looked up, “who has known monsters of every fang and claw, are you afraid of destiny, too?”

Geralt pinched his lips tight together. “No,” he admitted. “I have seen mothers lash themselves raw over the death of a child, believing they crossed destiny, ignoring the stench of the fifty other children in the plague cart outside. Destiny,” he said, being honest and frank as he was unused to doing, “helps people believe there’s an order to this horseshit. There isn’t.”

Calanthe looked satisfied for a moment.

“But a promise made must be honored,” Geralt concluded; it was obvious Pavetta fawned over the cursed knight, so it made little sense to him why they ought to be kept apart. “As true for a commoner as it is for a queen.”

Calanthe drew herself up.

“I love Duny, Mother,” Pavetta spoke. “I will marry him. I will finally be free!”

Geralt gestured a little. He wanted to point out that only a _monster_ would stand in the way of real love like that. He kept silent. He looked back to Calanthe, who was slowly deflating, and then his gaze snapped over her shoulder –

_Jaskier,_ at some fucking point, had edged his way into the middle of the hall and was taking _notes._ Geralt caught his eye and bared his teeth and Jaskier just looked at him as if to say _“What?”_ Geralt snapped his lips shut and ground his teeth together to keep himself from growling; he should have expected it, he always told the fool to stay back in safety and then turned around to find him right in the thick of things, always with his fucking quill and papers.

Geralt pitied the fool that fell for that Omega.

(And, clearly, himself.)

Then he heard the ring of steel, his attention was distracted from Jaskier, and Calanthe held a dagger to Urcheon’s face. 

Pavetta screamed.

A gale-force wind flew from the center of the hall. Geralt and everyone else were thrown off their feet; Geralt hit a pillar and his back cracked unnaturally, but the wind kept him pinned against it. He looked out for Jaskier, struck by concern, and saw him near a wall with a serving girl, holding her as they were buffeted by the wind. Geralt tried to move, instinct compelling him to _get to Jaskier,_ and the wind threw him back. 

He looked and saw Pavetta and Urcheon rising in the air, their hands joined. An unnatural voice was whispering under the sound of the wind, words Geralt couldn’t decipher. Jaskier was out of the reach of the gale, which seemed to be circling Pavetta and Urcheon, and that gave Geralt a moment to think at least.

The force of the wind was throwing objects around all across the hall; someone would get impaled or bludgeoned or worse. Geralt set his feet and pushed against the gale, grunting with effort, and forced his way through the circle to get closer. He thrust out his hand to perform a Sign, but the wind shot it back at him and he slammed against the pillar once more. A sword was caught up by the wind. Geralt pushed himself, he pulled a potion from his coat and shot the cork out with his thumb, then downed it, and released the bottle; the wind took it and dashed it against the stones.

Mousesack was also pinned to the pillars and he lifted his hands to counteract the magic. Geralt gritted his teeth as the potion ravaged his system, his core was strengthened, but his instincts were dampened, and his anxiety concerning Jaskier was boxed up and put away. He strained through the wind, hands outstretched, and while Mousesack tried to contain the forces, Geralt aimed for Pavetta.

She abruptly looked at him and Geralt thrust a Sign to her. He heard her gasp and she and Urcheon fell from the air. The winds stopped, all light was extinguished, and the hall was plunged into silent darkness.

Moonlight streamed from the overhead windows. It lit a circle around Pavetta and Urcheon, illuminating the broken glass and smashed clay and food that had been caught in the wind and sent flying. Geralt stepped forward, panting, as Pavetta and Urcheon pushed up from the ground.

Calanthe approached them. Geralt watched her for another foolish attack, but she only embraced her daughter.

The rest of the guests got up, and Geralt may have positioned himself by Jaskier, as Jaskier walked up to his side and touched his arm. Geralt did not move, however.

“Destiny has spoken!” Calanthe called into the silence. “And I have listened!”

Geralt muttered _“Finally,”_ under his breath. Jaskier’s hand slid around his elbow.

“The law of surprise will be honored,” Calanthe continued. “Pavetta will marry Lord Urcheon.”

“React poorly,” the third man that had joined Geralt and Urcheon said as he joined Calanthe’s side, “and you will not just face the Lioness, you will face the Sea Hounds of Skellige!”

“So that’s who that is,” Geralt whispered softly.

“Lord Eist,” Jaskier hissed to him.

Geralt grunted. Jaskier’s hand then gripped his wrist. Geralt looked down, then gently pulled away from him. Jaskier stepped to the side, folding his hands in front of him.

“Queen Calanthe has agreed to my proposal of marriage,” Lord Eist continued.

Geralt flicked up an eyebrow, wondering when he’d missed that tidbit.

“Oh, my notes!” Jaskier whimpered. “No!”

“You’ll remember,” Geralt muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“There will be two vows here tonight!” Calanthe called; Eist took her hand, then Pavetta her other hand, and Urcheon joined them. Calanthe looked around, then added, “I assume that’s agreeable.”

Geralt looked around, too, but no one stepped up to protest. Not even the two lords who had encountered _rare_ subspecies of manticore.

“Delightful,” Calanthe sighed.

Geralt leaned towards Jaskier. “If you try to bring me to one of these things again, I will destroy your lute,” he murmured.

“Noted,” Jaskier replied softly.

Candles were brought in, holy men stood in a circle. Geralt shuffled his way out of their way, ending up by Jaskier again, who still stood with that same woman that he’d been flung against during the wind. Calanthe bound Pavetta and Urcheon’s hands and blessed them. The pair kissed.

Urcheon then abruptly snarled. He spasmed and fell to the ground. Geralt reached for a sword that wasn’t there, but Urcheon turned onto his stomach as he let out sounds of pain, and then he was sitting up again, and his face was that of a man’s. He pulled off his gloves, looking astonished.

True love’s kiss or a blessing, whatever bullshit, Urcheon’s curse was lifted. Geralt was done with this shindig.

“I think this has the makings of my greatest ballad yet,” Jaskier announced.

“If you’re alive in the morning,” Geralt pointed out, turning. “Don’t –”

He frowned. The woman wasn’t a serving girl, but some noble. Geralt grimaced.

“... grope for trout in any peculiar rivers until dawn,” he advised.

It was one of the oddest things Geralt had endured; vague jealousy in the back of his head that was beaten back by the effects of the potion he took. He turned and started to go, fully intent on losing Jaskier once and for all.

“No, wait!” Urcheon called. “Wait! You saved my life!”

Geralt sighed and turned back. “You’ve proven yourself the kind of man who would do the same,” he offered, “I want nothing.”

He tried to go again.

“No, please!”

Geralt stopped, making a soured face. _What part of “nothing”_ _did these people not understand?_

“Please, do not feel you are doing me a service,” Urcheon said, “I cannot start a new life in the shadow of a life debt.”

“Fine,” Geralt sighed. “I… claim the tradition as you have,” he came up with on a whim, “the Law of Surprise. Give me that which you have but do not yet know.”

With that, Geralt started a third attempt to leave.

“No!” Calanthe gasped.

Geralt sighed very heavily and turned back once more. He was tempted to break more than Jaskier’s lute.

“What have you done, Witcher?” Calanthe asked.

“Fear not, Your Majesty,” Geralt said, “if I am seen again in your kingdom, it will be to kill a _real_ monster, not to claim a crop or new pup.”

He nodded, point made. “Destiny can go fuck –”

Pavetta suddenly vomited. Geralt froze, blinking, as Calanthe touched her daughter’s face, whispered to her, then the three of them all looked at Geralt. He stood there for a second, slowly realizing what just happened, connecting the vague illness he'd smelled on Pavetta all night long, and felt like hitting himself in the face.

“Fuck,” he said.

He left with haste. He would not hang around for a child to be born and then _marry_ the daughter or turn the son into a Witcher. Both options were reprehensible. He would break Jaskier’s lute the next time he saw him, and lock him in a tower far, far away while he was at it. He grabbed his sword from where it had been impaled into a chair by the wind and started to go, but Mousesack caught up with him.

“Clearly, the girl has access to immense primal power,” he started.

“Yeah,” Geralt admitted, grimacing as he turned back, “and with no idea how to control it.”

“I’m gonna stay,” Mousesack added.

There it was. 

“You’re a good man,” Geralt said, turning.

“You should, too,” Mousesack tried.

Geralt gave him a tight smile. He respected Mousesack, but not Destiny.

“This has been enough partying for me,” he said. “I’m getting out of here. Alone.”

“You’re bound to this now, Geralt,” Mousesack insisted. “Whether you like it or not.”

“Witchers don’t take bonds,” Geralt reminded him. “I’m not for changing. You know me better than that.”

“Yes, I do, but you can’t outrun destiny just because you’re terrified of it!” Mousesack said. “It’s coming, Geralt. Not believing won’t change that.”

“Bullshit,” Geralt said. “This was just a girl using her magic to stop her mother from gutting her lover! Nothing more.”

“So you say,” Mousesack replied, “but the bond that will come into being between you and this child –”

“Witchers don’t take bonds,” Geralt cut him off. “We never have. That child will stay with his or her parents, where they belong, and I will go back to hunting monsters, where I belong. Mind yourself,” he added, a touch of empathy ebbing back into him as the potion’s effects faded. “True words are rare birds in courts like this. Watch for daggers in your back – Or, more likely, poison.”

He put his sword in his other hand and touched Mousesack’s shoulder; he looked dejected, but Geralt wouldn’t be convinced by sad eyes.

“Be careful, old friend,” he said, then left.

Geralt returned to the tavern and changed into his clothes, leaving the set of finery Jaskier had bought him in their rooms, then took Roach from the stables and left that night. He rode Roach at a light trot until the moon was high, when he eventually stopped, made camp, and rested for the night.

He didn’t see Jaskier for another few months. He thought, with conflicted feelings, that he’d finally been rid of him.

Then Jaskier was singing in another tavern in another lonely town, where Geralt had just finished a contract.

“My dear Witcher!” Jaskier called to him. “Why, it seems we are always destined to meet!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Horseshit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _geralt anytime anyone mentions destiny: have i mentioned that i don't believe in fate, in destiny, in the predestination of anything?????_
> 
> _anyway chapter three is up on my you-know-what (as are snippets from this thing's sequel bc spoiler i'm already writing that) so if you follow the link to[this tweet](https://twitter.com/moonythejedi394/status/1233073179452563456) and consider subscribing voila there's chapter three and um some smut??_


	3. Tell Me, Love, Tell Me, Love, How Is That Just?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _pls welcome yennefer. some content warnings; there's blood and non-con sex magic ahead._
> 
> _i wanna remind y'all, yennefer is a badass woman and deserves more than the motherhood arc that seems to be set up for her in netflix witcher. i've attempted to maintain the canonical interpersonal relationships between everyone, hence reusing netflix's dialogue, but yennefer and geralt's relationship makes me hella uncomfy bc yennefer's character is just wrapped in so many misogynistic tropes. also, the mind control on geralt and sex magic thing in the orgy is dub-con at best if not straight up non-con and it's just never addressed._
> 
> _so, yes, geralt/yennefer here is toxic, i think it's toxic in netflix, and yennefer deserves better. this is the beginning of the arc i'm giving her and it's not matching netflix's arc, so if you're a fan of her fixation on getting pregnant and having a baby, it's not happening here. (she is going to be ciri's magical aunt, tho, that's gonna happen.)_

##  **_(3) Tell Me, Love, Tell Me, Love, How Is That Just?_ **

  
  
  


It seemed that no matter where Geralt wandered after leaving Jaskier, he would always run back into the bard again within a few months. It was a curse, likely, some deity had been offended by Geralt’s conduct in some way and, thus, decided to plague him with constant reminders of what he could not have. 

The last time Geralt had left Jaskier, he must’ve been just a week away from his heat. Geralt’s nose had been full of the fertile scent and for days after leaving Jaskier, he was aggravated and horny; a most unfortunate combination. Not even taking on sex workers on multiple different occasions had been able to settle his nerves. Even in the two months since, Geralt had been on edge constantly with a low-simmering rage and anxiety.

It wasn’t difficult to distinguish exactly why. It wasn’t quite rut, but pretty damn close. For the months since, he hadn't been able to sleep well. He’d been inclined to spacing out in the evenings with vague thoughts of pillows and Jaskier doing mundane things such as yawning or plucking at his lute. It was excruciating to be inside his own head. Every time he smelled the kind of scent-blocking salve Jaskier wore, his heart lifted with excitement and hope while his stomach filled with dread, but so far, none of those Omegas had been Jaskier.

Geralt was desperate for something to stop the pseudo-rut, just for something to give him one good night’s sleep. He was so desperate, he believed stories of a djinn’s amphora resting in a lake near Rinde.

So there he was, casting a net over and over into the waters, dredging up the bottom, and pulling up nothing but silt and fish.

With a curse, Geralt tossed his net and a large catfish back into the lake. He began to pull it back in, his teeth grinding on themselves, and heard a distant voice. Singing.

“‘Cause you all know that this bard loved ladies from Nilfgaard, ‘cause Nilfgaard can kiss my…”

Geralt stood upright, his spine stiff, and his teeth ground down on themselves even harder. Jaskier came around the bend in the road.

“Geralt!” he called, sounding surprised. “Hello.”

Geralt yanked in his net, ignoring Jaskier and berating his addled senses that he hadn't heard him coming or even smelled him. That fucking salve was pungent as ever, but did nothing to stop the trace sweetness Jaskier naturally produced. Over the past decade almost since meeting Jaskier, his scent had matured and gotten somehow even better. Geralt still couldn’t decipher what it was exactly and at that very moment, the smell of the salve made him want to snarl and throw Jaskier into the lake instead of the net. Not the first time something like that reared in his head.

“What’s it been, months, years?” Jaskier asked as he strolled casually up to Geralt. 

"Three months and twenty-four days," Geralt growled under his breath. He’d been _counting,_ godsdammit.

“What is time, anyway," Jaskier sighed. "I heard you were in town. Are you following me, you scamp?”

Geralt worked his jaw and pulled his net from the water and said nothing.

“I mean, I’m flattered and everything,” Jaskier continued, producing a flask and lifting it, “but you should really consider getting a hobby one of these days.”

He drank heavily. Geralt lifted the net from the water and found not even a rock in it. Frustrated, he shook it out, getting pond scum and the like off it.

“Do you want some?” Jaskier offered, waving his flask without actually offering it to him. “How are you doing, I hear you ask!”

“I didn’t,” Geralt snapped.

“Well,” Jaskier continued anyway, with an air of defeated triumph, combined with the heavy alcohol clearly in his system, “the Countess de Stael, my muse and beauty of this world, has left me! Again.”

Geralt gritted his teeth and began gathering up his net to cast again. Good for Jaskier, he thought bitterly.

“Rather coldly and unexpectedly, I might add,” Jaskier said. “I fear I shall die a brokenhearted man.”

Geralt ignored him.

“Or, at least a hungry one,” Jaskier said. “Unless _somebody_ fancies sharing a fish with an old friend?”

Geralt continued ignoring him and walked to another part of the bank.

“Are we not using friend?” Jaskier called after him. “Oh, sure, let’s just give it another decade.”

Geralt considered for the slightest of moments if it would be practical to ask the djinn to make Jaskier fall in love with some Alpha far, far away who would bond him and get him out of Geralt’s life for good. Or if Jaskier would somehow manage to defy even that and appear at inconvenient times in Geralt’s life anyway, smelling frustratingly vague.

“Geralt, you’re fantastic at a great many things, but clearly, fishing is not one of them,” Jaskier remarked. “Have you caught anything today?”

Geralt found a spot he hadn't stood in and stopped to throw the net in.

“What are you fishing for, exactly? Is it cod?”

Geralt shook the net out, gathered correctly, and scanned the surface of the lake for a suitable spot to throw.

“Carp? Pike? Bream?”

Geralt threw the net, not too far, he didn’t want to lose it, but his toss may have been a little off. He grumbled under his breath and grabbed the rope to pull it back in.

“I’m just listing fish that I know,” Jaskier said. “Zander? Is that a fish?”

“I’m not fishing,” Geralt told him in a heavy tone. “I can’t sleep.”

“Right,” Jaskier said as Geralt pulled in the net. “Good. Well, that – that makes sense.”

Geralt pulled the net out and found it empty again. He set about readying it for another throw.

“Insomuch that it doesn’t,” Jaskier added quickly. “What’s going on, Geralt? Talk to me?”

Geralt stood up, working his jaw with his eyebrows tight together against the headache he was already getting from Jaskier’s scent-blocking salve, then he exhaled forcefully and shook his head, going back to his net.

“A djinn,” he confessed. “I’m looking for a djinn.”

“A djinn?” Jaskier repeated incredulously. “A dj – like – like a genie? Those…”

Geralt continued pulling the net from the muck while Jaskier stammered and gestured vaguely.

“Floaty fellas with the – the bad tempers and banned magics,” Jaskier concluded, “that kind of genie?”

“Yes,” Geralt retorted sharply. “It’ll grant me wishes –”

Jaskier started _laughing._

“It’s in this lake somewhere,” Geralt insisted, straightening up to wave a hand, but Jaskier kept laughing, “and I can’t fucking sleep!” Geralt then shouted at him, whipping around to snarl at the Omega that had kept him awake for _three months and twenty-four days,_ wild and angry and a mess of things.

Jaskier stopped laughing. His hair was rumpled attractively, a healthy growth of stubble colored his chin and cheeks and upper lip. The tip of his nose was pink from alcohol, presumably. Geralt growled to himself, shook off the net, then turned and strode off. He’d been at this for days now. He was beginning to lose hope.

He heard Jaskier following him again. Geralt shook the net, aggressive and tired and fucking pissed that Jaskier had the _gall_ to show up now of all times, but Jaskier followed him anyway. Like always. What the fuck did Geralt have to do to finally convince the fool that he was no good?

“I don’t mean to play priest’s ear or anything,” Jaskier called after him, just a few steps behind, “but has it occurred to you that we’re merely rubbing salve on a tumor?”

Geralt gnashed his teeth, thinking that _salve_ was the whole root of his problem anyway. He focused on the lake again; he was going to get that djinn if he fell over from exhaustion and died to do it.

“Not exactly addressing the root problem?” Jaskier said. “Hmm? I mean, maybe – just, maybe! – this whole sleeplessness… ness, has got something to do with what the druid Mousesack said to you in Cintra?”

Geralt only grunted. 

“You know, the Law of Surprise?” Jaskier continued as if Geralt needed reminding. “Destiny? Being unable to escape the child that belongs to you, so on and so on?”

“No,” Geralt snapped, throwing the net. “It’s not that.”  
  


Jaskier sighed, putting his hands on his hips. Geralt _ignored_ him.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jaskier sighed. “But! What if you’re not?”

Geralt looked up at him, eyebrows knit together again, and just stared at him. He then noticed that Jaskier’s doublet was undone and his shirt was open at the neck, revealing his throat for all the world to see. Geralt just stood there for a second, ridiculously angry at the height of men’s fashion these days for exposing Jaskier’s throat like that.

“You know,” Jaskier said, tone lofty, “the Countess de Stael once said to me…”

Geralt stopped listening, his teeth grinding at the thought of yet another one of Jaskier’s lovers. This Countess likely kept him company during his last heat. Geralt had never hated a person so much without meeting them.

“Did you sing to her before she left?” Geralt asked, kneeling to pull in the net and search it.

“I did, actually,” Jaskier answered, “and she –”

Jaskier stopped talking for once in his life. Geralt enjoyed the silence for the half-second it lasted.

“Why, what are you implying?” Jaskier demanded.

Geralt sighed, then looked at him. Jaskier inhaled, then laughed humorlessly and stood up from the stump he’d sat on, wagging a finger in an anxious way. Geralt went back to the net.

“We are so having this conversation!” Jaskier crowed. “Come on, Geralt. Tell me! Be honest! What do you think of my singing!”

Geralt threw the net out again and considered what to say. Perhaps –

“It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling,” he said.

He did like pie pastry, but Jaskier had no reason to know that.

Jaskier made several shocked noises behind him and Geralt started tugging in his net, ignoring him. Hopefully, Jaskier would be so offended, he swore off Witchers altogether.

“You!” Jaskier said like a swear word. “Need a nap!”

Geralt pulled the net over a fallen branch and his heart stuttered as he realized something was caught in it. He knelt, unraveling the net.

“I mean, are you _trying_ to hurt my feelings!” Jaskier shouted behind him, but Geralt wasn’t listening again.

He pulled the clay pot from the net and shook water and mud off it, tossing aside a leaf. He was almost elated as he turned away from the water.

“Look,” he said in a reverent whisper.

“Wh– wow, what – what is that?” Jaskier said, nearing.

“It’s a wizard’s seal,” Geralt rumbled, brushing the lid off. “The djinn!”

At fucking last!

“Do you mind if I…” Jaskier started, his hand closing around one handle.

Then Jaskier yanked it from him. Geralt stood upright, glaring, and Jaskier held it away from him.

“Jaskier!” Geralt growled warningly.

“Take back that bit about my fillingless pie!” Jaskier insisted.

Geralt grabbed it, but Jaskier kept a grip on it.

“Take it back and you get your djinn-y djinn djinn!” he said.

“Let go,” Geralt growled again.

“No, you let go!” Jaskier snapped, yanking on the pot; Geralt yanked back. “You horse’s arse!” 

There was a pop and Jaskier jerked backwards while Geralt’s hand flew in the other direction. Geralt looked down and saw the lid in his grip, but the pot in Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier held it up, looked inside, then turned it over and shook it a little. Geralt blinked uselessly.

“That’s a bit of an anticlimax,” Jaskier said.

The wind rose abruptly. 

“Or is it!” Jaskier gasped.

Geralt whipped around, looking in all directions, but no floaty fellow with a bad temper and banned magics appeared. Jaskier immediately started prattling, announcing wishes before Geralt could realize what he was doing, but “– the Countess de Stael shall welcome me back with glee and very little clothing!” snapped him out of it. He grabbed Jaskier by the clothes and jerked him back against a tree, snapping his name, and Jaskier stumbled back, exclaiming, as Geralt glared at him.

“There are only three wishes,” he growled.

“Oh, come on, you always say you want nothing from life!” Jaskier snapped back and Geralt jerked back with a hiss of discontent, gritting his teeth again. “How was I supposed to know you wanted all three wishes all to yourself!”  
  


“I just want some damn peace!” Geralt screamed.

“Well, here’s your damned peace!” Jaskier answered him, then threw down the clay amphora.

“Ja–ah!” Geralt snarled, dropping down to collect the pieces of the amphora.

He growled as the wind rose again; the jagged clay fell against his arm and it cut him. Geralt hissed and dropped the clay to grab at his arm, but then Jaskier said his name and grabbed at his shoulder, his voice somehow wrong.

Geralt smelled fear and reacted instinctively. He threw the Sign of Aard out and the djinn was cast away from them, screeching, its swirling black figure dissipating into thin air. The wind died down and the area calmed.

Geralt glanced at his arm again, but Jaskier fell against his knees, wheezing. Geralt turned, reaching for him, and Jaskier grabbed his arm, coughing.

“Jaskier?” Geralt said, confused and concerned.

Jaskier coughed again, then spat out blood.

Geralt went cold. Jaskier looked up at him, his face pale under the blood on his lips and chin, and he only wheezed. His neck was turning purple, something swelling at the base of his throat, right where his shirt opened up to show his chest and a hint of where his scent gland would be. 

Geralt lifted him off his knees entirely, standing up with him, his arms under Jaskier’s ass and holding tight. Jaskier coughed over his shoulder, Geralt smelled him spit out more blood, and Geralt ran for Roach. Rinde was close, Geralt would have Jaskier there in minutes. He put Jaskier on Roach’s back, then untied her, and climbed up in front of him. He took the reins and shouted to Roach, digging his heels in, and she took off with a whinny.

Geralt made her gallop until he reached the tents outside Rinde; Jaskier nearly fell off the horse several times and Geralt regretted not seating him in front of him. Entering the town, Geralt shouted for a doctor. Someone directed him to a tent and Geralt hauled Jaskier into it.

The healer, an elf, couldn’t help.

“These injuries of a magical nature,” he said. “But it’s a bit like –”

“Putting salve on a tumor?” Geralt cut him off, glaring at Jaskier now.

Jaskier nodded frantically, for the pain medication Geralt guessed.

“His throat was attacked,” the healer said, running around and combining liquids in a glass cup. “If the spell’s action isn’t halted as soon as possible, the damage may be irreversible.”

Jaskier wheezed, grabbing at Geralt. Geralt moved closer quickly, gripping Jaskier’s shoulder to steady him; he knew of no other way to comfort him. Jaskier coughed hard again, then bent over and spat out more blood. Geralt’s own blood was raging, but not because of the call to combat; Jaskier’s fear scent under his salve was raising Geralt’s anxiety and the pseudo-rut that had been tormenting him the past few months.

“The longer he goes untreated, the more likely it is to spread,” the healer kept going, “he could die.”

“Fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier wheezed, grabbing for the front of his shirt.

“Uh,” Geralt said, a loss for words and what to do, but he held Jaskier’s wrist against his chest, patting his shoulder with his other hand. “Yeah, we won’t let that happen,” he insisted.

What the fuck was he going to do?

The healer came back with the glass cup and held it for Jaskier, who drank all of it at once. He swallowed with audible difficulty, then gasped and exhaled shakily.

“The medicine will buy him a few hours, but he needs a magical remedy,” the healer said. “You’ll have to take him to another town.”

Geralt jerked his gaze to the healer’s startled one. “There isn’t a mage here?”

The healer shook his head, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “The mayor says they are dangerous.”

“What aren’t you saying?” Geralt demanded, irritated with the idiot while Jaskier wheezed for breath and whimpered from his pain.

The healer hesitated. Jaskier looked up at him, then at Geralt, then let his head fall forward as he continued to wheeze. The healer looked at Geralt, still holding his tongue, and Geralt forced a tight, grimacing smile.

“Tell me,” he growled.

“Well…” the healer said slowly, “there is… one. I was tasked with bringing this mage to justice. But I was unable to penetrate certain… defenses.”

Geralt glared, wishing people would speak plainly. 

“The mayor himself made the catch and imprisoned the mage in his house,” the healer admitted.

Geralt gave a nod and bent to help Jaskier stand. “That wasn’t so fucking hard, was it?” he said, pulling Jaskier up.

“Be careful!” the healer said while Jaskier wheezed hard as Geralt pulled him up. “The mage is powerful and malicious! And quite cunning!”

Geralt just nodded, pulling Jaskier away. “I’ll go find him,” he said, unconcerned by the healer’s warning.

Geralt put Jaskier back on Roach and rode to the mayor’s house, getting directions from the villagers. He found it in the forest after dusk, but someone stopped them as they charged through the gates.

“Whoa!” he called. “A fee for entrance!”

“A fee to see the mayor?” Geralt repeated, incredulous. “This is urgent,” he added, nodding back to Jaskier, who was wheezing and covered in blood.

“I don’t make the rules,” the guard said, smiling cruelly. “But money opens all doors.”

Geralt growled and leaned over to grab his coin purse. He shook it, then hit the man in the temple with it. He fell hard on his front.

“So it does,” he muttered, urging Roach on.

Geralt put Jaskier over his shoulder and took a back entrance into the house. He found wine shelves, filled and free of dust, and torches lighting the way. He entered a kitchen and put Jaskier down, because he was waving his arms against Geralt’s back, then looked up and caught an eyeful of a man’s nuts.

“Whoa,” Geralt said, eyebrows flying up.

The man just smiled, unconcerned by his floppy dick hanging out in front of them. He spread his hands. “Welcome to my home.”

“You’re the mayor of Rinde?” Geralt questioned. “Not exactly… what I was expecting.

Jaskier wheezed, forming half-words that could have been _mage_ or _mayor._ Geralt nodded and looked back at the naked mayor, avoiding his dick.

“Sorry, he’s in a bad way,” he said, though it was obvious. “Is there a mage that lives here?”

The mayor looked around, then gasped. “Apple juice!” he said, waving his hands vaguely. “She wants the apple juice! And she always gets what she wants.”

“I don’t understand,” Geralt said to Jaskier, who usually was able to explain odd human things to him, “does he want me to get him the apple juice?”

“I don’ know,” Jaskier said faintly through an inhale.

Geralt grunted and reached behind Jaskier to pick up the jug of apparent apple juice, then turned back, but the naked mayor had sat down and begun snoring. Geralt worked his jaw, putting together the bits. Not the mayor’s bits. Those were thankfully now tucked between his pasty thighs.

“Good,” Geralt muttered, exhaling forcefully.

He pulled Jaskier off the table, who made another hurt noise, but followed. Geralt picked him up again, carrying Jaskier in one arm and the apple juice with the other. He left the kitchen, but going through the doors, a swirling fog covered the floors.

“The fuck…” Geralt whispered, but carried Jaskier down the hallway to follow the fog.

They entered a grand room, filled with the fog, soft, chiming music, and an extensive orgy. Jaskier wheezed in concern, his eyes wide. Geralt let out a low hum as he evaluated the situation. There was only one person wearing clothes, a woman across the room and seated in a pool of light, with a filigree mask and bright red lips. Geralt put two and two together and figured she was the mage.

Geralt carried Jaskier partially into the room, then stopped and, sighing, reluctantly put him down in the laps of two naked women. “Stay,” he said, letting Jaskier fall.

Jaskier made several upset noises. Geralt strode forward, his nose wrinkled against the odor of the fog and the sex in the air. It would probably hit Jaskier, soon, but whatever pain he was in would prevent him from doing anything about being surrounded by naked men and women. That didn’t make Geralt feel any better.

The mage just looked at Geralt as he approached. She seemed neither surprised nor concerned to see him, which Geralt did not like.

He raised the jug in his hand.

“I, uh, brought you apple juice,” he said blandly.

“And quite a bit more,” the mage answered calmly.

Geralt narrowed his eyes a bit, wishing he’d brought his swords inside instead of just the djinn’s lid.

“You’re immune,” the mage said.

Geralt flicked his gaze to the fog and disregarded it. “You’re the mage,” he stated.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” the mage answered, getting up.

“The elf didn’t mention…” Geralt started, looking out of the corner of his eye at the orgy around him.

He did say malicious. Sex magic could be constantly malicious, by some. Definitely a little disturbing in his book.

“What did he fail to mention?” Yennefer of Vengerberg asked.

“We need your help,” Geralt said simply.

“‘We’?” Yennefer repeated.

Geralt turned and pointed to Jaskier. Jaskier wheezed across the room and lifted an arm before dropping it, quite limp. Geralt looked back at Yennefer.

“Just a friend, I hope?” Yennefer said.

Geralt gritted his teeth again and grunted, which was not an answer.

“Your heartbeat, it’s extraordinarily slow,” Yennefer observed. “You’re…”

She trailed off as if she expected him to fill in the blank. Geralt looked at her, unimpressed, unamused. It was not hard to guess. Even Jaskier had known in less than thirty seconds.

“A mutant,” Yennefer concluded.

Geralt was even less impressed.

“A Witcher,” he said. “Geralt of Rivia.”

“The famous White Wolf!” Yennefer drawled, nearing. She stopped, uncomfortably close. “I thought you’d have fangs or horns or something.”

Geralt bared his teeth for her. “I had them filed down,” he said dryly.

Yennefer chuckled and circled him. Geralt was even more uncomfortable. He couldn’t smell her, which made him suspicious. She was a mage, which made him wary of her duplicitous potential. Jaskier was dying, which made him desperate.

“I’ve never seen a witcher up close,” she said. “Tell me, what little spells can you cast with your hands? Call it professional curiosity.”

“Please,” Geralt forced himself to say. “Jaskier here needs immediate attention. And then, if you’d like,” he added, hoping he sounded persuasive and not hostile though he was sneering, “I can indulge your curiosity all night long.”

“It won’t take all night,” Yennefer answered. “But I’m sure we can find a way to fill the time.”

“He was attacked by a djinn,” Geralt said, raising the bag, where he had stashed the seal that had been on the amphora. 

“A djinn,” Yennefer repeated.

“Whatever it is, it’s spreading,” Geralt insisted.

Yennefer took the bag from him and stepped away.

“Fix it,” Geralt asked her. He was pleading. “I’ll pay you. Whatever the price,” he added, knowing he was being stupid.

Jaskier made him a lot stupid these days.

Yennefer turned again, eyeing him coldly. “You’ll have to do better than juice,” she said. “Ragamuffin!”  
  


Geralt started, but the music in the room abruptly cut out, as did the fog. The people there jumped away from each other, gasping and shouting, and hastened for clothes and for the exit. Jaskier fell over with a thud and Geralt moved to pick him up, lifting him gently. Jaskier groaned again, his face white against the blood staining his skin, and his hands clutched limply at Geralt’s shirt. Yennefer calmly followed the stream of horrified people out of the room, but took the stairs out of the hallway going up. Geralt, wondering what he’d gotten himself into, followed her.

“Put him there,” Yennefer said, carelessly gesturing to a bed. “Then go back downstairs.”

“I stay with him,” Geralt growled.

“You’ll be in my way,” Yennefer answered, taking off her mask. “Go.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. He put Jaskier down, lingering over him. Jaskier met his gaze, fright and worry in his, and Geralt touched his hair for a brief second.

“You’ll be alright,” he murmured. “Just… don’t try stuffing her pantry.”

Jaskier looked horrified and wheezed faintly. Geralt pulled back, reluctant, then turned before he could stop himself and went downstairs.

He paced for a very long time. He was unused to being so consumed by his emotions, but he couldn’t control them at that time. He felt guilty. If he hadn't been so foolhardy as if to go after a fucking djinn just so he could a gods’ damned night’s rest, Jaskier wouldn’t have been attacked. He’d’ve probably joined the orgy with glee; or by the magic’s coercion. 

Geralt did not like this mage. She was extorting the town, clearly, and magicking them into having sex so she could lord over them during it given everyone’s hasty exit earlier. She agreed to help Jaskier, but what would she take from Geralt in return? He’d _stupidly_ said whatever the price. She could turn him into a dog, or an inanimate sex toy, if dubious sex games were her perversion. She could kill Jaskier and trap him anyway. Mages were stupidly powerful.

Several times, Geralt almost went back upstairs. But Jaskier’s scent went from fear to peace when he left and didn’t go back. Even if she’d rendered him unconscious, it wouldn’t be so sweet unless she’d done something about his pain. His scent would be acidic and acrid, burning at the back of Geralt’s throat, demanding his attention and foolhardy devotion.

Geralt paced for a long time. Finally, Yennefer entered the kitchen again.

“He’s in a deep, healing sleep,” she said, and Geralt couldn’t tell if she was lying or not.

“How long will he sleep for?” Geralt asked.

“Long enough for you to bathe,” Yennefer said frankly.

Geralt tilted his head, confused. Yennefer dropped a bundle of leather onto the table between them.

“How did you –” he started, then gave up. “Right. Magic.”

Yennefer smiled slightly.

“I hardly think bathing in this house is going to leave me any cleaner,” Geralt told her.

“I insist,” she answered. “I can not only guess the age and breed…”

Geralt tilted his head again, twice as confused and even more uncomfortable.

“… of your horse,” Yennefer said, and Geralt let out his breath, looking away, “but also its color. By the _smell._ ”

Geralt grunted. Yennefer gave him another slight smile, much too controlled to be genuine, and turned to leave. Geralt looked back at the bundle of leather on the table and smiled sourly at it. A bath. 

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, picking up the clothes.

He went upstairs. Jaskier lay on the bed where he’d left him, and he was at least breathing. Geralt paused at his side, then clenched his jaw and followed the smell of hot, perfumed water. There was a large bath in the next room, installed into the floor and steaming. Yennefer was nowhere in sight, at least. Geralt stripped off and got into the bath.

The water smelled like lavender. Geralt didn’t like it.

He used the soap, rinsed his hair several times, and even dug his nails into his scalp like Jaskier would do. Did, that one time in Cintra. He looked out the doorway into the bedroom, at Jaskier just breathing, and focused on the hot water. Magic didn’t affect him, at least, but if the water was poisoned, that might. Geralt had never absorbed poison through bathwater. To be safe, he washed quickly and started to get out.

“Stay.” 

Geralt splashed back into the water, hiding his dick from sight. Yennefer was standing behind him, now in a white dressing gown, like she’d been there the whole time. Geralt bared his teeth at her and tensed himself to leap out at her; healer or no healer, he’d defend himself.

(And his Omega, something said in the back of his head, which was promptly squashed.)

“How long were you there?” Geralt growled.

“Just a moment,” Yennefer said, unremotely bothered by him. “Tell me, what made you want to seek out a djinn?”

“How did you know it was me and not the bard?” Geralt asked gruffly.

Yennefer gestured to him. “You just told me.”

Geralt showed his teeth again, then slunk back into the water and put his back to her, even lifting a knee from the water, showing that he was unafraid of her. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered.

“Fishing for a djinn seems an extreme measure to remedy sleeplessness,” Yennefer replied.

“When extreme measures seem reasonable,” Geralt muttered. “Yes. I’m desperate.”

Yennefer chuckled. Geralt looked in the other direction from her, watching Jaskier in one of the mirrors. Would the witch pick up on the fact that Geralt was rutting, somewhat? 

“You didn’t ask me for help on it,” Yennefer just said. “Why?”

“Looming death kind of jumped the queue,” Geralt pointed out dryly. “Besides, you’ll forgive me for not trusting you without another alternative.”

“How will you sleep without the djinn?” Yennefer challenged.

Geralt shrugged. “I won’t,” he said.

“Extreme measures,” Yennefer repeated softly. “Come now, I’ve helped your friend. Why not you?”

Geralt exhaled and looked around, taking in the luxury and the air of discomfort. “I’m wondering if I can afford you,” he lied. “Have I accidentally agreed to indentured servitude?”

She didn’t answer, which was telling. Geralt stared ahead, maintaining nonchalance, but he was focused on Jaskier. Until he woke up, he wouldn’t rest; rut or no rut.

Yennefer got up and he heard her dressing gown come loose. Geralt glanced up to confirm that she was taking it off, then looked away.

“Turn around,” she said.

Geralt huffed and moved. He looked up into the mirror on the other side of the room, wanting to keep an eye on her, but her reflection raised an arm and the mirror turned, reflecting another part of the room. Geralt grunted.

“That’s cheating,” he said, shifting forward in the bath.

“Nobody smart plays fair,” Yennefer answered, the water splashing as she got in.

Geralt mapped out the items in the room he could use as blunt force weaponry. It was surprisingly a lot. At least from here, he could watch Jaskier breathe.

“Tell me,” Yennefer asked, “are all witchers similarly blessed?”

Geralt wasn’t sure what she meant, so he only grunted.

“Come now,” Yennefer coaxed, “you promised.”

“I haven’t conducted a survey, but I’d hardly say we’re blessed,” Geralt told her.

Certainly cursed with causing nothing but grief for those around them, he thought, looking at the bloodstains on Jaskier’s clothes. 

“Oh, don’t be so grim,” Yennefer said, “you were created by magic. Our magic.”

“Thank you,” Geralt replied, bland and angry at once, “made for a magical childhood.”

“Happy childhoods make for dull company,” Yennefer said, splashing behind him.

Geralt huffed again. “Judging by your wrists and your wits, your childhood was very happy,” he pointed out and she slowed behind him. “But Aretuza fixed you up nicely. What was your ailment before?” Geralt added, feeling spiteful. “Clubbed foot? Pitiful scent? Split ends?”

“Are there women who find your coarseness charming?” Yennefer replied.

Geralt smiled vindictively.

“Maybe some places they find your coin very charming indeed,” Yennefer added, her voice trailing off.

“You seem to find coin pretty charming yourself,” Geralt said. “Clearly capitalizing on the political situation here.”

“I’m serving the stifled people of this town,” Yennefer said.

“Is that what you call it?” Geralt answered. “It’s fine to fly in the face of overzealous authority, but to pretend it’s anything other than making a profit, or for pleasure –”  
  


“And to pretend you’re after a djinn to cure insomnia?” Yennefer cut him off. “Come, you must know I can detect a lie when I hear one.”

Geralt grunted. “Fortunately for you, once I’ve paid for your _kind_ services, it’ll be none of your concern.”

“Fortunately for you,” Yennefer repeated, “I’ve determined your company and conversation payment enough.”

Geralt jerked around to glare at her. She glanced once over her shoulder, her lips curled up. Geralt grabbed onto the side of the tub and surged up, sending water cascading down, and strode out in search of a towel.

“What’s the matter?” Yennefer called. “Water not suit?”

“The company,” Geralt retorted.

Yennefer flicked her hand and the door to the bedroom shut. Geralt glared at it, then dried off roughly and rapidly. His clothes were gone, and instead of provoking the witch, he dressed in the clothes she provided. She got out as well and magicked herself dry, putting her dressing gown on again. Geralt yanked open the bedroom door, tugging down the shirt.

“This is a little tight,” he said shortly over his shoulder.

“I believe I sized you up quite right,” Yennefer retorted.

Geralt ignored her. He was drawn to Jaskier, watching him. He inhaled and exhaled sharply. Jaskier’s scent was merely peaceful. The salve was fading. His natural scent was coming through. It was faintly floral.

“Do you doubt my capabilities?” Yennefer asked.

“No,” Geralt muttered. “Just your intentions.”

He looked down at Jaskier, torn between moving closer and moving back. Though his clothes were covered in blood, Jaskier’s face was now clean. He looked as he smelled; at ease.

“I said some things to him,” Geralt confessed, not sure why he was even saying it. “He’s… Uh…”

“A friend?” Yennefer suggested.

Geralt clenched his jaw and glanced back at her. “I’d like it to not be the last thing he remembers.”

“He won’t remember much if he’s dead.”

Geralt turned slowly to look at her, daring her to turn on him. Yennefer just laughed.

“It’s a joke. He will survive,” she said, crossing the room. “And recover his vocal talents. Does that satisfy you?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows and the corners of her lips in a smirk.

“Not in the slightest,” Geralt snapped, moving closer. “But don’t reproach yourself for it, Yennefer. I’m not easily satisfied.”

Yennefer raised her eyebrows. Geralt scowled at her, then out of the corner of his eye, caught a drawing on the floor, surrounded by candles. He looked to the side and spotted the seal that had been on the djinn bottle, then back to the floor.

“It’s the sign from the seal,” Geralt stated.

Yennefer smirked again. “Very observant,” she whispered.

“I’ll be taking Jaskier now,” Geralt said, walking away.

“If you wake him, the spell won’t take,” Yennefer advised. “That’s no way to treat a friend.”

“You want the djinn,” Geralt guessed.

It had all been too easy, a djinn bottle, just lying at the bottom of a lake near Rinde, an attack that required a mage, and there was only one mage closeby? He was a fool.

“The amphora’s broken, it’s already long gone,” Geralt said.

Yennefer walked away. She applied perfume to her wrists, then out of nowhere, a breeze filled the room and the candles on the floor doubled their flames. Yennefer turned back, her face mild.

“Do go on,” she encouraged, “tell me how stuff works, Witcher.”

Geralt clenched his jaw, torn again.

“The djinn is tied to this plane and its master,” Yennefer said. “Tell me, how many wishes did the bard express before he lost his voice?”

“You need Jaskier to make his last wish so you can capture it,” Geralt blurted.

“So that’s two,” Yennefer answered, stepping closer.

“The djinn will fight you,” Geralt warned her as she neared, “if you try and bend it –”  
  


A sudden aroma filled the room, much like the fog that had dusted the first floor for the orgy. Geralt reeled, overwhelmed by a sweet, floral and sugary perfume.

“That –” he spat out, “– that scent – Lilac –” he guessed, his heart beating wildly, ”– and – and…?"

“Gooseberries,” Yennefer answered in a soft murmur.

Geralt’s headache lifted. He exhaled forcefully, his vision getting blurry at the edges, and he was suddenly unsure of what he was doing there. He shook himself, tensing, panting; he was supposed to be _immune_ to magic!

“Tough to get in your head,” Yennefer said quietly.

Geralt stared at her, angry and confused, and he couldn’t remember what he was doing. Lilac and gooseberries. It was beautiful, it was glorious, breathing it in felt better than the finest ales and the rush of battle. Part of him knew he should be fighting, but the rut that had been keeping him awake for the past three months burst through his mind’s defenses in one go. Yennefer’s lips were soft-looking, plump, and a gentle shade of peach. Her eyes compelled him. His flesh yearned.

“You have a strong will,” Yennefer continued, her lips moving slowly, mesmerizingly, “but you can’t contend with me.”

She stepped closer and the scent grew more powerful. Geralt was frozen in place, his muscles inexplicably locked, his head clouded with lilac, gooseberries, desire, and anger all at once.

Why was he angry?

“Sorry I couldn’t be direct, I knew you’d fight it,” Yennefer said. “And I do love a good old-fashioned trap.”

She stood up on her toes and Geralt found his head tilting down. She pressed her lips to his, and they were soft, and they tasted sweet, and Geralt found his eyelids growing heavy.

“A good old…” he mumbled, “fashioned… nap.”

He slipped, or fell. He opened his eyes next and he was surrounded by gravel and gray stones. Geralt sat up with a forceful grunt, growling, but chains rattled and held him back.

The elven healer from before gasped, stepping away from him. Geralt made a confused noise and blinked; his head was splitting with pain.

“Elf,” he said, looking blankly at the healer.

“Chireadan!” the healer spluttered. “You – Oh, never mind!”

Geralt looked around, with no clue as to what had happened. That was concerning. He ought to be more irritated about that. No, concerned. He was very confused.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“At the spa!” Chireadan mocked. “Where do you think we are?”

Geralt grunted and pushed himself to his feet. The chains rattled, but Geralt would be able to snap them eventually. If he had the time. Which he wasn’t sure he would.

“I hope your rampage was well worth it!” Chireadan snapped as Geralt yanked on his chains.

Geralt stopped and blinked. “Rampage,” he repeated vaguely. “What did I do?”

“Where to begin?” Chireadan said, but Geralt didn’t actually listen to him.

He went around, shaking the bars in the windows and on the gate, gauging the strength of the metal. Not high. If he had a potion, he’d get through the chains and the gate no problem, but he didn’t and his hands were linked together with just a few inches of chain.

“Any of this ring a bell?” Chireadan demanded.

“Like a faded dream,” Geralt retorted dryly.

“She had you enact revenge on her behalf,” Chireadan said, his tone softer. “I tried to stop you, but the guards assumed I was there to abet.”

Geralt nodded to him, then resumed thinking out his plan. Jaskier was still with Yennefer, hopefully, and hopefully still asleep. If he died before he could make his last wish, then Yennefer would lose the djinn and her plan would fail.

“Your sentence is being passed by the very council members you attacked!” Chireadan told him. “It is sure to be death!”  
  


Geralt looked at him and supposed that, perhaps, he should have been listening. “I guess that’s one way of getting some rest,” he muttered, though he had no intention of dying at the hands of the town council.

“Why in the name of the gods would you enlist the mage’s help after my warning!” Chireadan demanded. “It’s as though you thought scorpion prettier than the spider because of its lovely tail!”

“You weren’t exactly forthcoming,” Geralt replied shortly, sitting down and brushing off his hands.

It’d be easier to escape when they took him away for execution. Then, at the very least, he could steal a weapon.

Chireadan neared and knelt down before him, his wide, honest eyes flashing in the sunlight. Geralt felt uncomfortable being looked at so closely and turned his head away.

“I admit I could have better prepared you for Yennefer,” he said softly.

Geralt looked back at him, then tipped his head. “You’re under her spell, aren’t you?” he guessed tiredly.

Chireadan looked down, blinked and shook his head. “I wish I was,” he answered, “but, no. It’s a simple issue of body chemistry.”

Geralt took a second to process that. It was more Chireadan’s open face than his words, which made zero sense _(body what?)_. 

“You’re in love with her?” he guessed again.

Chireadan thinned his lips. Geralt scoffed, shaking his head, and looked down.

“I think perhaps you may understand me,” Chireadan replied.

Geralt jerked his gaze up, angry suddenly; were his feelings for Jaskier that transparent? Then the gates in the distance opened and he was distracted. Chireadan looked up as well and sighed.

“I thought it would take longer to build the scaffold,” he said mournfully.

Geralt got up, prepared to take down the whole fucking town if necessary, and the guard from the day before – he recognized the shit-eating expression – approached with a torch and a grin. There was a sizeable lump on the side of his head.

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt muttered.

*

Jaskier woke, sucking in a breath and nearly heaving with an onslaught of dizziness. He covered his eyes with a hand, pushing up onto his elbow.

“Oh, where am I?” he groaned.

He then looked around for Geralt, likely about to berate his lack of self-preservation again, but jerked. There was no big, scary Witcher, just a woman, sat at the end of the bed he lay on, her back bare and hair loose around her shoulders.

“Whew,” Jaskier started, “um, right. Good. Uh?”

Without a word, the woman pulled a dressing gown up her back and onto her arms. Jaskier looked around again, but did not recognize the bedroom. 

“Not to be – um, untoward, or anything,” he started, “but, um, did – did we –?”  
  


The woman shrugged her dressing gown into a more comfortable position. 

“Y’know?” Jaskier muttered uselessly. “D– do the, uh…?”

The woman turned. Her eyes were a very distinct shade of purple that he vaguely recognized from hazy dreams the day before. They were also glowing.

“Oh, no!” Jaskier cried out, scrambling across the bed and stumbling to get away as she crawled towards him. “G–gods, no, definitely did not butter that biscuit!”

The woman followed him wordlessly again. Her dressing gown hung open, exposing her breasts and an ink drawing on her abdomen; all very creepy. Jaskier walked backwards to keep away from her.

“Look, I am so sorry!” he said. “But I’ve just remembered! I left my ca–ca–ca…at! On the stove!”

He grimaced. The woman’s expression did not change. He couldn’t tell if she was going to eat him or sacrifice him to her gods, or possibly herself? Or both?

“I really must be going!” Jaskier insisted. “So sorry!”

“Express your deepest desires and then you can be on your way,” she told him, picking up a knife.

“My deepest desires are currently satisfied!” Jaskier said brightly, spotting his boots and hastening to put them on, “thank you so much –”

She flashed a hand. Jaskier gasped and his back hit the wall; his head cracked against it and he shouted, grabbing his skull.

“How’s your throat?” the woman asked, nearing him with the knife and the scary ink drawing – sort of jar-like? – and the fairly symmetrical tits. 

Everything about her screamed Alpha, he was scared, and his scent-blockers were worn off, surely. Jaskier bared his throat, hoping to all the gods out there that this woman, Alpha or no, would recognize the basest symbol of humility and spare his life. He whimpered a little.

“Perhaps you should try some scales,” the woman suggested.

“Uh!” Jaskier stammered, afraid of everything that was happening in front of him. “T–toss a coin to your witcher!” he sang off-key, wishing fervently that his fucking Witcher would burst in already save him. “O Valley of –” 

The woman grabbed his crotch.

“Penis!” Jaskier shouted, filled with nothing but fear. “Oh, gods!”

“Oh,” the woman said, looking down his front; she _squeezed_ his crotch. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Please stop touching me,” Jaskier begged.

The woman calmly put her knife at his throat, but he was more concerned about her squeezing hand on his crotch.

“If you want to keep what little cock you have,” the woman told him calmly, “make a damn wish!”

Jaskier whimpered helplessly. “Geralt!” he screamed.

The woman bared her teeth and dug the knife into his throat. Jaskier yelped and regretted _very_ much exposing it to her.

“Save your breath, he’s not coming,” she snapped.

She, thank all the gods in the heavens and even the nine hells, did let go of his bits and withdraw the knife from his throat, but he stayed pressed tight against the wall; he couldn’t even drop his chin now. She knelt before a circle of candles, her hands outstretched, and then Jaskier dropped and hit the floor. He breathed again, sucking in air, and the heat intensified with the wind in the room.

“Make your wish!” the woman commanded, and _that_ was an Alpha voice if he ever heard one. “Do it! Now!”

“I don’t – I don’t know!” Jaskier stammered even as he rushed to obey her demand. “I wish – I wish very badly to leave this place forever!”

The woman inhaled and began to chant in another language. The wind picked up and a ghostly voice screeched inside the room. A second shadow burst out of the woman’s and climbed up the wall, a gaping maw clearly visible in its outline. Jaskier was frozen by fear for a moment, then shook himself and bolted for the door. Neither the woman, nor the djinn, stopped him.

*

The chains were not removed and Geralt was not taken to the gallows. It seemed this guard was a sadist.

“What’s the difference between a Witcher and an Alpha!” he jeered as he threw Geralt, chained down, into the iron and stone.

Geralt spat out blood and laughed despite himself. “I’ve heard that one before,” he said. “It’s that Witchers got brains, right?”

“Wrong!”

The guard slammed his boot into Geralt’s ass and sent him flying back into the iron, cracking his skull against it. Geralt groaned and pushed up, in time for the guard to grab him by the hair and haul him back.

“What is repulsive and deviant and cannot smell!” the guard demanded, then cracked him in the face with his club; Geralt roared as his nose broke and his mouth filled with blood. “A Witcher without a nose!” the guard cackled.

Geralt was thrown down again. He spat out blood and shook his head, trying to clear it. He could break the chains, he had to.

“Last words, Witcher,” the guard said. “Make them good.”

Geralt inhaled and clenched his jaw, then growled and shook himself again. “I want you to burst,” he spat, “you son of a whore!”

He waited for the whoosh of the club, intending to roll and block it with the manacles and hopefully snap the chain. Instead, he heard a choke, a wheeze. Then there was a squelching pop and hot liquid sprayed Geralt. Geralt fell onto his backside and looked at the guard’s body. He had burst from the inside.

“You’re the one with the wishes,” Chireadan mumbled absently, splattered by blood and bits of brain and bone.

Geralt ripped back his sleeve. A soft whisper was in his ear and there were two lines cut into his forearm.

“Fuck,” he said. “Oh, _fuck!”_

He gritted his teeth and strained his shoulders. The chains keeping his hands together snapped. Geralt got up with a sharp, angry hiss of breath, grabbed the chain connecting to the wall, and yanked hard. It ripped free of the stone and dust flew everywhere. Chireadan wiped his mouth, then pointed to the burst body of the guard.

“He has keys,” he pointed out.

Geralt looked down at the guard, then grunted and lurched to grab the keys at his belt. He fitted a key into his manacles, dropped them, then went for the gate. He unlocked it and strode off.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Chireadan shouted. “What about me?!”

Geralt stopped to throw him the keys. Chireadan fumbled with them, but Geralt was already leaving. He ran out of the dungeon and scanned the landscape; the mayor’s house wasn’t far. Geralt broke into a run; his nose throbbed on his face, but the pain was distant in his head.

Rut was very similar to the effects of his potions, he distantly observed. Without the withdrawal of irrational thought and emotions. Geralt might kiss Jaskier once he found him.

Geralt slowed to a stop as he entered the manor’s gates, exhaling in relief as Jaskier stumbled out of the house at the same time. Geralt smiled.

“Geralt, thank the gods!” Jaskier cried out, falling to lean on his knees as he panted. “I might live to see another day! We need to go!”

Geralt, continuing to smile, followed him. “Jaskier,” he breathed, more than happy to hear his bard chattering again, "you're okay."

Jaskier smelled like blood and fear and not one drop of the fucking salve that had been driving Geralt mad for years. But he was okay.

“Oh, I’m glad to hear that you give a monkey’s about it,” Jaskier retorted.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Geralt answered, fond and amused. “What happened?”

“Well, I was having a lovely dream which then turned into a nightmare,” Jaskier prattled as they walked, “there were naked women in _both_ parts; the first was loving, tender, very generous, the second, significantly more terrifying!”

Geralt was suspicious.

“Tell me about the second one,” he asked.

“Well, black hair, devilish eyes, was painting an amphora on her abdomen,” Jaskier sighed. “The usual.”

Geralt stopped, thinking slowly. She couldn’t –

“She wants to be the vessel,” he said in disbelief, turning around to face the mayor’s house again.

“Wait, you know this woman?” Jaskier demanded. “Of course you know this woman,” he added without waiting for Geralt to answer.

“She wants to become more powerful,” Geralt voiced his thoughts, “but she’ll die?”

“Well, let’s pray for her,” Jaskier advised, “on our way _out_ of town!”

Geralt worked his jaw and started back to the house.

“Oh –” he heard Jaskier sigh heavily behind him.

Geralt reached up and set his nose with a crack as he headed towards the door again; the pain was, as before, barely registered in his focused state. Jaskier ran up beside him, but Geralt carried on.

“Are you perhaps short of a marble!” Jaskier yelled at him. “Why are you doing the thing I always do, Geralt! You’re the one with the brain!”

Geralt ignored him, wiping his nose. Chireadan caught up with him then, grabbing his arm, and Geralt stopped, surprised he was even there.

“You have to go in, don’t you?” Chireadan asked. “I recognize the look. I know how you feel.”

Geralt looked down at his arm in Chireadan’s grip, then pulled back. “You’re making me uncomfortable,” he admitted, walking again.

“Oh, no, no, no, no!” Jaskier called, running after him and getting ahead of him. “Do _not_ tell me that this is the moment that you’ve actually decided to care for someone other than yourself!”

Geralt stopped and looked blankly at Jaskier, wondering how dense one had to get? If Chireadan could tell, surely even Jaskier would realize the depth of how much Geralt really did care for him.

“Leave the very sexy but insane witch to her inevitable demise!” Jaskier shouted at him.

“She saved your life, Jaskier,” Geralt retorted. “I can’t let her die.”

He pushed past Jaskier and into the house. He heard Jaskier exhale, but didn’t turn back. It was quite that simple, he owed Yennefer for saving Jaskier’s life. Plus, the djinn had taken Geralt’s shout of _“I want some damn peace!”_ and interpreted that as _nearly kill his bard._ He very much wanted to destroy that piece of shit.

Yennefer was chanting in Elder as Geralt strode into the house. The top floor bedroom was full of swirling wind; lately, not his favorite sign of magical happenings. 

He entered and Yennefer raised a hand.

“Don’t!” Geralt called. “I’m here to help you!”

Yennefer dropped her hand, grabbing onto the floor beside her. She was almost on her back, but bent double in clear pain. The amphora’s symbol on her stomach was shifting, twisting, like the djinn was playing with it.

“I don’t need your help!” Yennefer insisted. “You’re free! No longer under my spell!”

Geralt walked into the room, equally angry with that woman as he was with himself. “I owe you,” he said. “A life for a life. Alright?”

“You seem to want to meet your end,” Yennefer challenged, her eyes flashing.

“As do you,” Geralt answered.

Yennefer’s spine cracked in a disgustingly audible way. She groaned in pain, bending back.

“The bard expressed his last wish, but the djinn – it isn’t weakening,” she panted. “It’s – getting stronger!”

Her spine cracked again and she screamed through her teeth: “Go!”

“It’s because I’m the one with the wishes,” Geralt confessed.

“Well, what are you waiting for!” Yennefer screamed. “Make your wishes!”

“Becoming the vessel for the djinn will have you lose control, not gain it!” Geralt shouted back at her. “Can’t you see what this is doing to you?!”

“True transformation is painful!” Yennefer cried out.

“Release the djinn!” Geralt begged of her. “I’ll give you my last wish!”

“You heroic protector,” Yennefer snarled; veins stood out in her body, sweat pooling in her neck and shoulders and dripping between her breasts to make the ink amphora on her stomach run. “You noble dog! Permitting my success as long as you command it yourself!”  
  


Geralt looked at her in bewilderment; what was with these people and complicating shit beyond necessity?

“Fuck off!” Yennefer screamed as the wind in the room rose in power and volume. “I’ll do it myself!”

“Dammit, Yennefer!” Geralt shouted. “Tell me what you want!”  
  


“I want everything!” she screeched, her voice tainted by the djinn’s.

She flung out her hand and Geralt slammed into the corner. Her body was bent backwards in a near circle, but she didn’t release the djinn. 

“Make your wish!” Yennefer demanded of him; her voice amplified as around them, thunder rumbled and the stone cracked. “You can have anything you want! You could choose not to be a Witcher!”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. He had never thought of that.

“What do you desire?” the djinn, channeled through Yennefer now, called in a booming voice. “Immortality? Riches? Fame? Power!”

Geralt had once asked the still air, what might have happened if his mother never gave him up? Would he have still met Jaskier? Could they have been partners, mates, as his heart truly wanted, then?

What if he was no longer a Witcher? Would he even be able to adapt to life as a normal man?

Yennefer screamed. Geralt set his teeth. All of this could have been avoided if Yennefer hadn't put that djinn in the lake for someone to find, or if Geralt hadn't been angry with Jaskier, or if he had listened to Chireadan and found a different mage. If the _djinn_ hadn't tried to kill his bard.

“I wish,” he whispered, his voice lost in the swirling wind, “that this fucking djinn would fuck off back where it came from.”

The djinn screeched. The lid that had sealed the amphora crumbled into dust, and then the wind swept it away. Yennefer collapsed onto her hands and knees, her breath heaving.

“The djinn,” she gasped, “where did it go?”

Geralt looked around, frantic again. The ceiling groaned. He lunged for Yennefer and she hissed something in Elder, then they fell through the floor just as the ceiling above them caved in. Geralt landed on his back with Yennefer on top of him, on the first floor of the house where the orgy had taken place the day before.

Geralt pushed Yennefer off of him, then got up. He brushed her hair out of her face, wondering if she was dead already. But she was breathing.

“Yennefer,” he said, “it’s me, Geralt.”

Yennefer opened her eyes. She looked at him, then shoved him off. He fell back, startled.

“I know who you are! What did you do?” she demanded. “You stopped me, didn’t you!”

Geralt looked around, confused; he’d assumed that she had lost control and the djinn released itself.

“I nearly had it,” Yennefer sighed.

“You had shit,” Geralt pointed out. “I saved your life. Life for a life, you’re welcome.”

“You let the djinn escape!” Yennefer snapped. “Who knows what havoc it’ll wreak now that it has no vessel at all?!”

“No more havoc than you,” Geralt said, looking around the trashed house again. “Djinns are only dark creatures when they’re held captive.”

“How can you be so sure?” Yennefer snarled.

Geralt looked at her, frustrated, and wondered if she really knew the _point_ of a Witcher. “When’s the last time you felt happy when you were trapped?” he asked sharply.

Yennefer didn’t back down, but she didn’t counter his argument.

“And if you were going to portal us to safety, you could have taken us out of this house or this shit town!” Geralt snapped. 

“A fine critique if you could make a portal yourself,” Yennefer retorted. “And it wasn’t a shit town until you came along, it was a fine town! I had a plan!”

Geralt laughed, looking at the evidence of Yennefer’s magical orgies. “That was going swimmingly,” he said, shaking his head at her.

“It was,” Yennefer snapped. “Like a drowning fish.”

Geralt looked at her, confused as to what to make of her. Yennefer exhaled forcefully, then set her jaw, and surged up to kiss him. 

Her mouth tasted like lilac and gooseberries. Or maybe that was just her scent. Geralt was startled, but her hands were already on his belt and the roar of rut in the back of his head surged. Yennefer grabbed his cock, her hand skilled and demanding, and Geralt wasn’t sure what he’d been doing a minute ago. She pushed him onto his back, and then she was on him, her dressing gown flung out, and she was sinking down onto his cock as far as she could take him (which wasn’t all of him, unfortunately).

It was a welcome respite from his head and his aches and his pains. A warm cunt, a heavy weight on his lap, and a sweet scent in the air. It was probably the best thing he’d ever smelled. Sweet, sweet lilac, gooseberries; a magnificent combination.

Geralt let the fog roll over his head and welcomed Yennefer’s kiss. He soon came, and though his knot couldn’t fill with Yennefer unable to take the entirety of his length, it was blissful. Yennefer rolled off him, and even sooner, he was asleep.

*

Jaskier fell to his knees outside the ruins of the house. _That fucking Witcher,_ he mouthed under his breath.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Jaskier asked the air. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way… We were – We were supposed to –”

_Fuck,_ he whispered without breath again, then looked up at the sky, where he could only guess Geralt was now looking down on him with a scowl.

“I’m gonna write you the best song,” Jaskier promised clumsily. “So everyone remembers who you are. What you did, what _we_ did, everything we saw… And I will sing it for the rest of my days.”

Chireadan fell down in front of Jaskier, grabbing his hands. Jaskier looked at him dazedly.

“He always did say I had the most wonderful singing voice,” he said; Geralt did prefer the pastry in a pie to the filling, he knew.

“They’re alive,” Chireadan said thickly.

Jaskier looked at him for a second. “Bollocks,” he said. 

Then he jumped up and strode over to the window he’d just seen Chireadan looking in, calling Geralt’s name. He reached the window, shattered, and looked in through a place that had lost the glass.

There was the very sexy, but insane witch, riding Geralt’s dick – Jaskier assumed – to high heaven. Jaskier let out a disbelieving laugh, then another one, then he felt a little bit sick.

“They’re alive,” he said, grimacing almost as he watched the insane witch toss her head back. “They’re really alive, I mean, whoo –”

He tilted his head, pointing as Chireadan stepped up beside him. “He –” Jaskier started, very confused by the way Geralt was just lying there and letting the witch do whatever she wanted, only occasionally grabbing her waist or hips to even show _he_ was alive, but Chireadan grabbed his arm and started to drag him away. 

“Whoa, hang on,” Jaskier called, “that doesn’t make sense!”  
  


“It does, they’re in the heat of passion,” Chireadan insisted as he dragged Jaskier off, “there need be no ballads written about their coupling, thank you.”

“But Geralt doesn’t like being on his back!” Jaskier protested.

“How would you know?” Chireadan demanded.

“Well, I –” Jaskier stammered. “I’ve spoken to many of his partners! None of them ever said that he let them top like that, and it makes sense, he doesn’t like being defenseless!”

“I don’t think he needs defending,” Chireadan pointed out, “they are in love.”

“Since when!” Jaskier demanded in return.

Chireadan shrugged. “Nothing but love would make a man go into a crumbling building like that.”

Jaskier stopped and looked back, his shoulders dropping. “I guess,” he muttered.

Chireadan tugged on Jaskier’s arm. “Come,” he said, “I want to get very far away from here very quickly. Perhaps you can write ballads about my heartbreak.”

Jaskier let Chireadan pull on his arm. “I guess,” he muttered again.

At least he had his salve in his pocket. Jaskier followed Chireadan dejectedly, but applied it to his wrists and neck. It wasn't like Geralt probably ever realized Jaskier had a thing for him anyway. He’d never shown any indication of being into men. Though, fucking another Alpha, woman or not, was queer. Geralt must not have been Jaskier’s type of queer.

He needn’t have Chireadan detail his broken heart, Jaskier could throw plenty of his very, very mixed emotions together well enough. At least he could already think of lyrics. He just needed one, or maybe two minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _oop_


	4. Forget-Me-Nots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _some songs by the amazing devil feature in this chapter, namely elsa's song and love run_

##  **_(4) Forget-Me-Nots_ **

  
  


It had been quite a while since Jaskier had left Geralt in Rinde; more than a year. It was an odd feeling, to be the one left and not the one leaving, and Geralt disliked it.

It was always easy to stumble across Yennefer, however, and even easier to let her lilac and gooseberry scent overcome him and give him both one hell of an orgasm and a good night’s rest. He wasn’t sure what the situation with her was, considering he’d never even fucked the same sex worker twice on all of the Continent, but it hurt his head to think about it. So he didn’t. 

Things with Yennefer were easy and uncomplicated. She was immortal and damn powerful, and thus could easily survive being associated with a Witcher, let alone fucking one. She was everything Jaskier wasn’t; she was blunt, never talking just for the sake of hearing her own voice, she said what she wanted rather than playing games, she never even needed Geralt, she was wholly independent and seemed pleased to stay that way.

So Geralt went where he wished, pursuing contracts and coin. He declined involving himself in human affairs, but killed a bandit group kidnapping Omegas to sell into slavery near Temeria. He often found himself near the coast of Redania for no reason, and as soon as he realized where he was heading, he turned back.

In a small hamlet of Cidaris, Geralt took out a pond full of drowners and rented a room in the inn for the night. There was no brothel, so Geralt filled his desire with beer. There was a pleasantly dark corner of the bar, away from the other guests, where Geralt drank his fill slowly, savoring the low buzz he eventually got.

Then, as unexpected as always, Jaskier entered the tavern.

Geralt almost didn’t recognize him. In the past year, his hair had grown out in waves of curls down past his jaw and he now had a beard. Jaskier burst inside with a whirlwind of cold air and snow. His cheeks and nose and ears were pink and white flecks rested in his hair now past the lobes of his red ears. Geralt instantly felt the need to scold him for neglecting a hat in the blizzard outside. He expected Jaskier to find him and pounce on him as always, but in his dark corner with his hood up, Jaskier didn’t see him.

“Fear not, my dear friends!” Jaskier called, grin as bright as his cheeks, across the tavern as he stripped off his gloves. “Your cold, cold night has been warmed by hot mead and now your hearts shall be touched by sweet, sweet music!”

People already cheered. Geralt did not. Not that he ever did. Tonight, Jaskier was not alone. A young woman took off her coat and Jaskier hung it up for her, then offered her a hand up as she stepped onto a table, a lyre in her hands. Jaskier jumped up beside her, taking his lute from his case, and the woman plucked a cheerful, happy tune while Jaskier strummed deeper, more serious notes.

“Any requests?” the woman asked the tavern.

“Fishmonger’s daughter!” a man shouted.

Jaskier laughed with the tavern while the woman grinned. The two of them made eye contact, then, in perfect harmony, their fingers began the opening notes of the lewd jig.

Jaskier sang, but his companion usually only hummed beside him until a high note was needed. They sang of love and sex and heroics, as Jaskier always did. Geralt waved the tavern girl over to refill his mug so often, she came back with a small keg and left it on his table.

“Honestly cheaper in your case,” she told him stiffly.

Geralt scowled, but she was right.

“Toss a coin!” someone yelled.

“Ah, everyone knows that one!” another answered. “Give us a new one, Dandelion!”

“I do happen to have one!” Jaskier told them all. “My dear Madeleine, _Love Run?_ ”

Geralt bit his tongue, then drained his mug for perhaps the thousandth time and filled it from his keg. Jaskier’s dear Madeleine hummed and strummed her lyre, and the tavern fell soft to listen.

“Oh, let the world come at you love,” Madeleine sang, “like distant toms a-drumming; love, run! The song you know’s begun!”

Jaskier strummed his lute and hummed behind her vocals, tapping his foot along the beat and rhythm to mimic a drum. Geralt squeezed his hands around his mug and the metal warped.

“Oh, let the earth a-tumble, love, and humble you withal, keep running. It’s up to you now, up to you now, love –”

“Run!” Jaskier joined his dear Madeleine’s sweet voice. “Love, run! For all the things you’ve done! Run for all the things that drum, run for all those pages thumbed, love, run!”

The tavern maid drifted by Geralt’s table, eyeing him darkly, and Geralt growled under his breath, but twisted the mug to warp it back into shape. It wasn’t his fault they used soft metals.

“Love, run! For all the things we wished we’d done!” Jaskier and his Madeleine looked into each other’s eyes as they sang, their voices a perfect harmony in the silent inn. “Run from all you know that’s coming, run to show that love’s worth running to!”

They hummed together, their fingers skillful on the lute and lyre each. Geralt watched them exchange smiles and meaningful looks and his temper crackled and snapped like the coals in the hearth.

“Let foul men band and heed your hum,” Jaskier sang alone, “for that ancient hymn you heard me strumming, is naught but fumble-falls and thugs and tumbleweeds, love, run! It’s naught that rum won’t solve; though some would harm you, none, not one, no, none, would raise to you a hand nor thumb –”

“Not while by you, I stand and hum!” the pair sang together.

Like a cauldron, left to boil over and scald and to make the embers hiss, Geralt _hated_ that woman. Madeleine beamed when she met Jaskier’s eye and her lips so easily called him _love._ He hardly heard the song anymore. He’d listened to Jaskier sing about love before, but never seen any of the people that inspired his heart to pour into song.

Like the strike on cracking coals by the bubbling cauldron, Geralt suddenly hurt. Madeleine was beautiful and her voice fit Jaskier’s perfectly. 

The patrons applauded and cheered when Jaskier and Madeleine finished their song. Geralt’s hands stayed on his mug, only moving to fill it again. The spill of ale into his cup slowed and Geralt tipped the keg, but it drained. Sighing, Geralt raised the mug to his lips and drank heavily. He was far too sober to watch Jaskier and his lover work in such harmony.

The crowd cheered for more. Geralt waved the tavern maid over, pushing the empty keg to her.

“How much would another one be?” he asked.

“Gods, Witcher,” she sighed, “who died?”

“How much?” Geralt growled at her.

She sighed again but Geralt couldn’t hear it over Jaskier striking chords and stamping his foot. Geralt dug his fingers into the table and ground his teeth, an old, petty hatred for his bard’s theatrics throbbing alongside his headache.

“You owe us near a hun’nard crown as’i ‘tis,” the maid told him. “Another keg’d be some twenty crown, I suppose?”

Geralt sighed and shook his head. The maid nodded, lifted the empty keg, and walked away with it. Geralt saw Jaskier watch her go, then his gaze moved to Geralt’s corner.

Geralt shrunk back into the shadows and his hood. He was tired. He had no patience for his flighty bard anymore.

“One more!” Madeleine called. “What’ll it be, lads?”

“Give us sommat real!” someone answered her.

“What’s real?” Jaskier asked. “Now, if we play something sad, will you throw vegetables instead of coin?”

“War’s real!” the same man called.

“Fuck off, Jed!” a boy shouted. “Sing the one about the boy and the fairy girl again!”

There were cheers and boos and the man, Jed, jumped up onto his table, waving an arm that had lost its hand. 

“Sing us a song about war, bards!” he demanded. “For our brothers an’ sons what ne’er came home!”

Jaskier leaned close to his woman and whispered in her ear. Madeleine put down her lyre and sat down on the table, but she began to drum out a slow beat. Jaskier hung his lute in front of him and struck his palm against the wood, letting a hollow sound reverberate. While Madeleine hummed, the tavern went quiet. Jed climbed down from his table. Geralt crossed his arms over his chest.

“I can hear the cannons calling,” Jaskier sang, clear and melancholy without the accompaniment of his lute or lover’s lyre, “as though across a dream. And I can smell the smoke of hell in every stitch and seam. And like flowers, the bodies tumble around this muddied lot. I cannot hear them scream, forget me not.”

Jed began to beat on his table in time with the song’s rhythm. Madeleine smiled, but Jaskier, his face was turned up to the ceiling, his eyes closed and hands hanging to beat one by one on his lute. Madeleine stopped humming and sang behind Jaskier, her voice softer and higher than his.

“Your voice, it carries over the hubbub and the hum. And it paints the sky and circles high like the beating of a drum! You will scream, ‘you should forget me,’ but I’ll cover my cold ears. It cannot be a lie if no one hears.”

They hummed together. The tavern maid leaned on a table, her chin propped up on her fist and her eyes glossy. The rhythm of fists into wood and Jaskier’s palm against his hollow lute was sad, yes, but angry, too. 

“‘Cause although you say goodbye to me, I know that we belong. And although you hold my hand and say ‘I can’t love you,’ you are wrong! Because love, it must exist here, in your heart, there must be feeling, but you say the words so often that I barely know the meaning. And when all the flowers are rotten and all the cannons shot, I’ll scream but you won’t hear, forget-me-not.”

Jaskier knelt, tapping on his lute still, then sat down on his hip and held his lute in a way that changed the sound of his palm hitting its front; a little deeper, a little louder.

“And in years to come you’ll wander to the place up on our hill, and then you’ll cry to our painted sky, ‘I loved him then, I love him still!’ And you’ll strew some sage and lilies and roses where I rot. Of all the flowers you picked, I knew you would forget forget-me-nots.”

They finished. Madeleine slipped off the table and put her lyre back into her case. Jaskier took his lute off his neck. A beat passed, then the patrons clapped and cheered like they’d done for all the other songs. Jed, the man with one hand, pounded on his table and whooped. Geralt picked through his coin purse, counting out the crowns he owed and what he’d have left over in the morning. It wasn’t much. The pickings had been slim as of late. Madeleine was going around the room with a cup and people were dropping coins into it, though they’d been leaving money throughout the show.

She came to Geralt’s table in the corner and smiled hesitantly. Geralt exhaled sharply, then dug out a few coins and leaned forward. She grinned wider and Geralt let the money fall into her cup, then leaned back into his shadows. Madeleine skipped back to Jaskier, and with the attention taken off of them, the pair hugged. Madeleine kissed his cheek, then took up her bag and lyre and headed for the stairs.

Geralt drummed his fingers on the table. Jaskier took a little longer to put away his lute, to dump the cup of coins into his purse, but when he did, he glanced at the stairs, then looked into the shadows where Geralt hid.

Jaskier met his gaze and smiled softly. Geralt looked down. Jaskier walked up to him anyway and put his lute down at the table, then sat across from him.

“I love the way you sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier told him with an easy grin; a mirror of his first words to Geralt, some nineteen ears ago. “What did you think? C’mon,” he added, “three words or less.”

Geralt looked over Jaskier’s shoulder, pinching his lips, then he sighed and dropped his gaze to the table and his empty mug.

“You’ve gotten older,” Geralt said. Three words or less, Jaskier had said.

“Rude,” Jaskier retorted. “I’m as pretty as the day we met, Geralt of Rivia, it’s _you_ that’s aged!”

Geralt snorted, fighting off a smile. He could say that Jaskier was prettier than the day they met, with a little more maturity behind his eyes. He wasn’t too sure about the beard, but he could grow to like it. His new hair length was quite pretty.

“I’m ninety-nine years old, bard,” Geralt said, however. “I’m permitted a few wrinkles.”

Jaskier gasped, dropping his hands to the table. “You’re joking!” he insisted. “ _Ninety-nine?_ You look –”   
  


He spluttered. Geralt met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. Jaskier, inexplicably, turned red.

“Hardly forty,” he said. “I can’t believe it. You’re nearly a century old.”

Geralt grunted. He looked back to the table. An old hope thought that if he didn’t answer Jaskier’s questions or comments, he would eventually leave. A stronger, gladder feeling knew he wouldn’t.

“You’re…” Jaskier started slowly, squinting at Geralt. “You’re sixty-two years older than I am.”

“I am,” Geralt answered.

Jaskier wouldn’t leave, and Geralt would answer. He knew that by then.

“Gods,” Jaskier sighed. “When is your birthday?”

“Saovine,” Geralt said.

Jaskier jabbed a finger across the table. “We will celebrate your hundredth birthday,” he said firmly. “Do I make myself clear, my dear Witcher?”

Geralt worked his jaw, but huffed.

“Ah, ah, I want a verbal agreement!” Jaskier scolded. “You, me, next Saovine, we party!”

“I hate parties,” Geralt grumbled.

“We party Geralt-style,” Jaskier offered. “Out loud, Witcher.”

Geralt sighed, but knew it was no use to argue. “Fine,” he growled.

Jaskier grinned. He clapped his hands together and beamed like there was sunshine coming through the gaps in his teeth. His smile could illuminate all the dark recesses of all the jagged corners of Geralt’s heart. It could, if Geralt were the type to speak poetically.

“Wonderful!” he said. “Now, tell me what you have been up to these past few years! How is your sexy but insane witch?”

Geralt looked up, startled. “My what?” he questioned.

“Your witch!” Jaskier repeated. “Y’know, the one we met in Rinde? Nearly got you killed with a djinn?”

Geralt frowned heavily, mumbling, _my witch?_ “Yennefer?” he said aloud.

“Ah, yes, her,” Jaskier said, waving a dismissive hand. “Is she here? Or do you commute back to wherever she lives? Does she still live in Rinde?”  
  


“I have no idea,” Geralt said slowly. “I haven’t seen her in a few months.”

“Really?” Jaskier asked, leaning forward. “I thought you were in love.”

Geralt made a face at him. “How many times do I have to tell you?” he snapped. “Witchers _don’t_ love.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Naught but love would drive a man to run into a crumbling building,” he said. “So, how is she?”

Geralt blinked at Jaskier, slow and a little concerned. Even if Witchers _did_ love, Yennefer wasn’t exactly the kind Geralt would fall in love with. He favored more mouthy, annoying Omegas. He’d thought it had been clear that day.

“I haven’t seen her in a while,” he restated. “And we don’t… exactly _talk_ when we do see each other…”

“Well, you must be a perfect match then,” Jaskier replied blithely. “I’m quite happy for you, Geralt.”

“Not much to be happy about, really,” Geralt admitted. “By the sounds of things, I ought to be happy for you. You clearly found a new muse. You and Madeleine play well together.”

“One, I have never seen you happy a day in your life,” Jaskier countered. “Two, what?” he finished, his smile completely gone.

Geralt gestured to the second floor. “Your companion,” he said, straining to keep his bitter feelings from his voice. “ _You_ make a good match.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, sitting back. “Oh, no, no, Maddie and I – No. She’s not my type and I’m not hers. But we do make a good team,” he said, smiling again. “Voice of an angel, she has.”

Geralt grunted; if Madeleine had the voice of an angel, Jaskier had the voice of a lark, or perhaps a sex demon. “Then who’s your muse?” he asked. “Did the Countess de Stael take you back after all?”

“You remembered,” Jaskier replied, his smile fading once more. “I’m impressed.”

“Did she?” Geralt demanded.

“No,” Jaskier said. “No, I, uh, I’ve sort of fallen back on the old muse, as it were.”

He made a vague gesture, his face long. It betrayed thin lines at the corners of his eyes.

Geralt grunted again. Jaskier was just smiling at him.

“What’s with the beard?” Geralt finally asked.

Jaskier laughed, sitting back in his chair and lifting his chin to throw his head back with it. Geralt forced his lips to stay in a firm frown, but it was difficult. He’d missed the sound of Jaskier’s laugh.

“That’s a fine story,” Jaskier chuckled. “It’s all to do with my mother; I grew a few weeks of manly stubble and she scolded me for – Well, for my lack of hygiene, I suppose. So I grew it out to spite her.”

Geralt nodded a little. Jaskier still smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his cheeks splitting in lines under the dark color of his beard. There were few male Omegas on the continent, and Jaskier was probably the only with a beard. Geralt guessed that was really what his mother took gumption with.

“Do you like it?” Jaskier prompted.

“It’s your face,” Geralt muttered. 

“High praise,” Jaskier teased. “I think that means you like it.”

Geralt flicked his eyebrows up and hummed. He looked away, now unsure of what to say. Jaskier leaned back in his chair again and for a moment, his teeth sank into his lower lip. Geralt watched the flesh turn white and then, Jaskier releasing it, turn pink again. 

“Say,” Jaskier broke the silence. “Madeleine must make her way to Gors Velen tomorrow, but I could be convinced to go in another direction. What monsters are you slaying in the next season?”

Geralt shrugged and sighed. “Whatever comes along.”

“What if,” Jaskier suggested, his lips curled in a familiar smirk, he drummed his fingers against the table, leaned forward, and raised his eyebrows, “I were to follow you? Eh? Like old times?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed.

“That’s ringing a bell!” Jaskier laughed. “Come _on,_ you heard me tonight, I’ve naught but sappy love songs and heartbreak ballads, I need more adventures, Geralt! Would you really mind?” he concluded with a pout.

“That never stopped you before,” Geralt retorted, glaring at his empty mug. “Do what you like, bard.”

Jaskier’s smirk slid off his face. He pursed his lips, then flashed Geralt a tight smile and picked up his lute as he stood.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll be seeing you, then. It was good to catch up, my dear Witcher.”

Geralt flicked his gaze up, but Jaskier was already leaving. Geralt sighed, but he didn’t call Jaskier back. He waved the tavern maid over and paid for one last mug of ale, then drank it slowly and wished he could get drunk the way humans did. Though he was buzzed, it wasn’t enough to take away the years of Witcher defenses drilled into him, it wasn’t enough to push him from his chair and go after Jaskier.

Witchers did not love. They did not get jealous. They did not pine, they did not yearn, they did not want. It was less his mutations, as he had feeling in his heart, after all. It would be unkind for a Witcher to love a human. It would be unkind for a Witcher to mate an Omega. What human Alphas provided to their mates, homes and livelihoods and children, it was impossible for Geralt. It would be unkind to love a human.

And Geralt did love Jaskier. Too much to be unkind to him.

Geralt finished his ale and took the steps to the second floor. He entered his room, far at the back of the inn, and lay down on the bed above the blankets, still in his armor. He closed his eyes and doze fitfully. He ought to find Yennefer soon. He could use a good night’s sleep.

Geralt woke at dawn, weary and plagued by a dull ache in his bones. He moved slowly, cracking his joints and stretching his limbs, then walked the hallway to the stairs and the first floor again. The bar was empty but for a cook and Geralt paid his bill and for a light meal.

And a second, slightly hartier breakfast. For Jaskier when he eventually came down.

It was a whim that kept Geralt in his seat after eating his porridge and finishing his tea. A few adventures with Jaskier wouldn’t kill him, and it wasn’t like they’d be able to travel together for very long, Jaskier’s heat season would begin in early spring and they would have to separate.

Guests streamed down in clumps and groups. The sun was well above the horizon when Jaskier and his companion finally exited the stairwell and entered the bar. Geralt caught Jaskier’s eye, then looked away and nodded to the cook, who went off to the kitchen to fetch another hot meal. Geralt watched from the corner of his eye as Jaskier hugged Madeleine and she kissed his cheek, then neared him. Geralt looked down into his second cup of tea as Jaskier took the stool next to him.

“You waited,” Jaskier said, as if this was something miraculous.

Geralt grunted.

The cook came back with a plate of hot cakes and cheese and eggs and put it down in front of Jaskier, then walked off. Jaskier glanced at him, then gave Geralt a bright smile. Geralt sipped his tea and stared ahead.

“Eat quickly,” he told Jaskier. “We’re wasting daylight.”

“Yes, Witcher,” Jaskier replied teasingly.

They left. Geralt walked beside Roach rather than ride her. Jaskier strummed his lute and hummed to himself, songs Geralt recognized from the night before.

“What was with the forget-me-nots?” Geralt asked.

“Hmm?” Jaskier replied. “Oh, it was nothing.”

“It moved many to tears,” Geralt commented. “Who forgot you? Or did your companion write it?”

Jaskier shrugged. “I wrote it, but it was just a song.”

Geralt looked at him for a while, but Jaskier kept his focus ahead. His fingers plucked different notes, far different than the song about war and flowers, and Geralt looked away.

*

In spring, Geralt brought them back to Redania when Jaskier’s scent turned fertile under his salve. At first, Jaskier made no mention of being homesick or friends he wanted to spend time with or even gigs to play that would take him away from Geralt. His scent grew sweeter by the day, and the salves seemed to lose their potency.

“I’ve got a contract in the north,” Geralt eventually told Jaskier. “It’s too dangerous for you. This is where we part ways.”

“Can’t I go with you and wait nearby?” Jaskier asked.

“No,” Geralt just said. “Goodbye.”

He turned his back and walked away, leaving Jaskier’s scent soured. Geralt did go north, but he didn’t have any contracts. He just wanted to get away from Jaskier before the scent of his approaching heat brought his blood to another unending rut.

He ran into Yennefer in Kovir, and as always, she turned on him and her thickly sweet scent filled his head. He slept well for having laid with her, but she was gone when he woke up. Geralt didn’t mind that.

*

In summer, Geralt found himself entering Redania again with no real purpose. Though he’d found Jaskier in many different places across the continent, he never found him near his hometown or Oxenfurt, never near the places where Geralt left him the season before. Summer turned to autumn and Jaskier would be having another heat soon, anyway, so Geralt left.

Autumn faded and Saovine, the first of the new year and Geralt’s birthday, crept closer. He remembered his promise to Jaskier, but there was no point if they weren’t together. Perhaps the next year, Geralt reasoned. He’d never celebrated his birthday, anyway.

The last day of the year, Geralt entered Ellander with a grave hag on Roach’s back, and, once paid for its head, headed into a tavern said to house a few sex workers. He walked in and at once, felt the sting of scent-blocking salve in his nose.

“Ha!” Jaskier, his hair almost to his shoulders but his face fairly clean-shaven, called across the bar. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present, Geralt of Rivia, the hundred-year-old White Wolf!”

Geralt shook his head and went to get a drink, abandoning all thought of sex and trades-people offering it. Jaskier soon jumped down from his makeshift stage and jogged up to his side, a sunshine-grin on his face.

“I knew you’d keep your promise,” he claimed. 

“Not intentionally,” Geralt admitted dryly.

“It was fate, then!” Jaskier replied. “You, me, tomorrow? We’re going to the _spa!_ ”

“Why is it you’re always driving me into baths?” Geralt answered, taking a mead from the barkeep. “I smell no less offensive than any other man around.”

“Well, no, you smell like bad meat and horse,” Jaskier answered with a laugh. “No, the _spa_ is relaxing! And there will be peace and quiet, just the way you ought to spend your hundredth birthday!”

Geralt eyed Jaskier suspiciously. Jaskier looked affronted and stuck his button nose in the air.

“You doubt me?” he challenged. “Come on, Geralt, you promised!”

“Are you going to douse me in soap?” Geralt returned cautiously.

“Only once,” Jaskier swore. “And it will be nice smelling soap; not even remotely floral!”

“At least you’re honest,” Geralt muttered, raising his mead.

Jaskier laughed and threw an arm around Geralt’s shoulders, shaking him and startling him into sloshing his mead. Geralt growled and licked the spilled honeyed drink off his gloves, but Jaskier took no mind.

“You will enjoy it,” Jaskier told him. “Now, I must be off to tend my audience again. Let me know what you think of the songs later!”

Jaskier danced off. Geralt was left scowling and wiping his gloves dry on the inside seams of his trousers.

Jaskier sang of adventure that night; no lovers or flowers to be heard. Geralt could at least enjoy his mead and Jaskier’s voice without the threat of untoward jealousy to drive him to anger.

“I need a room,” Geralt told the innkeep.

“Ain’t got none left,” he was answered. “Sorry abou’ tha’, Witcher. You could kip in the stables with your horse if you so wish.”

Geralt huffed and resolved to go to another inn. At the end of the night, Jaskier came back up to Geralt and joined him at the bar.

“A hot chamomile tea with honey,” he ordered of the maid, “and spice it up with a lot of whiskey if you would, please, darling, thank you.”

She blushed and hurried to fetch his tea. Geralt wrinkled his nose, glaring into his cup.

“Well, the spa opens late in the morning,” Jaskier told him, rubbing his hands together. “We can have breakfast before we go.”

“Where is it?” Geralt asked. “I’ll have to meet you there.”

“Why?” Jaskier returned, now frowning at Geralt. “It’s a few streets into the city, not far. Where are you going?”

“I have to find another inn to sleep in,” Geralt said. “Seems you’ve gotten the place booked.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier answered. “No, no, that won’t do! The only other inn in town is a shithole, you’ll be bitten to death by bed bugs before you turn a hundred!”

“I don’t think a few bugs will kill me, bard,” Geralt retorted.

“You can share with me!” Jaskier blurted.

The maid brought Jaskier his tea, bowing her head to him as she put it down. Geralt shook his head.

“I’ll risk the bugs,” he said. “What’s the name of the place?”

“Geralt!” Jaskier whined. “Look, I’ve got the best room here; a large bed and a warm fire, what more could you want?”

“To not share a room with you,” Geralt snapped back. “Forget a single _bed,_ Jaskier.”

“Don’t be prudish,” Jaskier retorted. “You’re going to join me and that’s that, dear Witcher.”

“I am _not,_ ” Geralt growled. 

“You will!” Jaskier insisted. “If you go off and get destroyed by bed bugs tonight, they won’t let you into the spa for the infestation in your hair!”

Geralt gnashed his teeth. Jaskier took a long gulp of his tea, then patted Geralt’s shoulder.

“It’s a big bed,” he offered as if in comfort. “You’ll survive.”

“Why is that every time I run into you, I end up in highly uncomfortable situations?” Geralt growled, picking up his mead to swallow the rest of it.

“Tosh,” Jaskier answered. “It’s a _wonderful_ bed.”

Geralt fully intended to leave after finishing his mead. But Jaskier ordered another cup of tea and a glass of strong liquor to go with it and he drank the booze straight. Within fifteen minutes, he was drunk.

“Off t’a bed!” Jaskier bade Geralt, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a pull. “Come on, you great lug of an Alpha, it won’t hurt you one bit.”

Geralt found himself being dragged off his stool by Jaskier’s limp hands. He reasoned he could support Jaskier’s stumbling and keep him from walking into the walls and breaking his pretty face, and that was how he guided Jaskier up the stairs.

“That one,” Jaskier offered, pointing. “Ooh, hang on a minute, I’ve got the key here somewhere.”

He patted his trousers and doublet. Geralt spotted it hanging from his lute case and handed it to him.

“Ah!” Jaskier cried, taking it. “Thank you so much, dear Witcher, you’re such a blessing.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Jaskier opened the room, then pulled Geralt inside and shut the door.

“Warm fire!” Jaskier said triumphantly, gesturing to the coals smoldering in the hearth. “Large, very, _very_ comfortable bed!”

Geralt eyed the wide bed suspiciously. He steadied Jaskier with a hand, but walked with him to the bed. Jaskier fell onto it, then turned onto his backside and yanked off his boots.

“Do you sleep in your armor?” Jaskier asked. “No, never mind, I don’t care; don’t do it.”

“I’m going to the other inn,” Geralt reminded him.

“No–ooo!” Jaskier told him in a firm drawl. “You’re staying put! Come now, you wouldn’t _abandon_ your very best friend in the whole wide world like this!”

Geralt’s lip ticked up at the corner despite himself. “Jaskier,” he sighed.

“Don’t start with that _we’re not friends_ nonsense,” Jaskier added quickly. “You, sir,” he said, jabbing Geralt in the chest, “are my oldest and dearest friend, and I shan’t accept anything less than the same from you! I shall not!”

Geralt let out his breath in a huff. Jaskier beamed at him angelically, then scooted back on the bed and started unbuttoning his doublet. Geralt slipped back as Jaskier wasn’t looking and went for the door.

“I see you!” Jaskier called. “If you abandon me now, Geralt of Rivia, so help me, Melitelle, I will – I will –”

Geralt raised his eyebrows. “You’ll what?” he asked.

“Cry,” Jaskier told him pompously. “Now, get back here and strip.”

Geralt exhaled. He pulled his swords off his back and put them down. Jaskier started grinning and Geralt steadfastly ignored him. 

Jaskier tossed his doublet into a corner of the room and shucked his trousers, even, leaving him in a loose, lacy undershirt and tights, complete with thick stockings laying over the tights up to his knees. Geralt took off his armor, but kept on his shirt and trousers. He neared, but Jaskier wrinkled his nose.

“You smell like rotten flesh still,” he complained. “Take all that off.”  
  


“I don’t have a change of clothes,” Geralt told him wearily.

“Sleep in your small-clothes,” Jaskier said with a careless wave of his hand. “It won’t bother me.”

“I am not going to sleep in my small-clothes,” Geralt retorted.

“You will, because you smell terrible,” Jaskier countered. “I am doing you a great favor in sharing my bed with you, so you could at least respect my delicate nose.”

“I wanted to go to another inn,” Geralt sighed.

“Geralt!” Jaskier whined.

Geralt soured his face, but tugged his shirt from his trousers and stripped it off. He turned his back to release his pants, hoping Jaskier was already laying down and not looking. Geralt laid his trousers by his shirt, then adjusted the chain of his medallion around his neck and turned back to the bed.

Jaskier was lying down, but he was looking. He did not glance away at being caught, rather, he smiled, his lashes low over his eyes, and patted the bed next to him. Reluctant, Geralt lifted the blankets and lay down beside Jaskier.

Jaskier turned on his side to face Geralt. Geralt huffed and turned to face the other way.

“Fine,” Jaskier grumbled, “be that way.”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder and watched Jaskier roll over to the other direction. Geralt let out his breath, then stared into the fire.

Jaskier’s breathing eventually slowed. He spread out naturally on the bed, and the soft fabric of his shirt touched Geralt’s bare back. Geralt carefully turned onto his back and watched Jaskier’s shoulders lift and fall. Jaskier hugged the blankets to his chest like a child would hug a doll, and the bundled wool at his neck made him look smaller. 

He hadn't put on a fresh dose of his salve, Geralt abruptly realized. The smell of it was faded too much for Geralt to pick it up. Instead, a gentle, floral fragrance filled Geralt’s nose.

Geralt moved under the pent-up weight of twenty’s years temptation. He turned onto his side, leaned over Jaskier, and tucked his nose close to the back of his neck. Jaskier shivered in his sleep and Geralt drew back quickly, but Jaskier shifted onto his back and relaxed his grip on the blankets. His shoulder and the plane of his upper arm touched Geralt’s chest, passing warmth from his body to Geralt’s. The touch between them was soft and gentle and unfamiliar. Jaskier murmured something, though no air and therefore no words left his lips. 

Jaskier slept with his mouth slightly open. This close, Geralt saw the shadow of facial hair that needed to be shaved off. Jaskier’s shirt was pulled away from his neck and exposed the valley of his chest, lined with fine, dark hair the same color as that on his head. Jaskier let out a long snore, falling quiet as he exhaled. Geralt lay down again, an arm tucked under his head, and as lay still, Jaskier turned towards him, pressing against his chest. Geralt held still. Jaskier snored again and mumbled something more in his sleep.

Geralt risked moving again. He shifted closer, pulling his hair away from his face so it wouldn’t fall on Jaskier’s skin and wake him, and put his nose near Jaskier’s scent-gland. He inhaled.

His nostrils filled with a sweet floral scent, tempered by a gentle citrus and something sugary. Lilacs, his mind supplied. Lemons. And gooseberries.

Geralt pulled back rapidly, sitting up. Jaskier twisted his head, looking one way and then the other, then smacked his lips, mumbled another word, and snored as he drew in breath. He exhaled, and his lips moved to shape the air into something Geralt could hear.

“Closer,” Jaskier mumbled in his sleep, “my Witcher…”

Geralt sat up properly, hands hanging in his lap, and stared with a frown into his empty lap.

One, he thought, lilacs and gooseberries, when combined with a lemony odor, smelled much better than on their own. Two, Yennefer smelled like lilacs and gooseberries, which had always struck him as odd for her. Three, Jaskier smelled like lilacs, gooseberries, and lemons. Four… Four…?

This had been a terrible idea.

Geralt glanced at Jaskier again. He clenched his jaw, then slipped out of the bed. He got dressed silently again, buckling his swords onto his back, and paused at the writing desk where Jaskier’s things waited. A quill sat by an inkpot, and his song book lay open on the table. Geralt glanced back at Jaskier, but he continued to snore. Geralt bent over the book and flipped to a blank page. He opened the ink pot, then dipped the quill into it. He held it over the page, and his mind was blank.

What could he say? _“I’m sorry”_ ? _“I couldn’t sleep”_?

_“Witchers are not incapable of love, but we know that it is best when we don’t”_?

The ink dripped onto the page. Geralt clenched his jaw, pinching his lips, then exhaled and put the quill down. He covered the ink jar again. He flipped to the next page, but the ink had already bled through several and Geralt didn’t want to waste that much of Jaskier’s paper. He went to close the book, but his finger caught on a page and the corner cut into his skin. 

Geralt muffled his curse and flipped to that page, shoving his cut finger in his mouth. He glared at it, then stopped and read it instead.

_O let the world come at you, love!_

_Like distant_ _drums_ _toms a-drumming_

 _Love, run! The song_ _I wrote you’s begun_ _you know's begun_

Geralt glanced over the rest of the page, scribbled lyrics and musical notes, things scratched out and written in tiny print in the small spaces between lines. He read the pieces crossed out, _let my touch soften you_ replaced by _let the earth humble you_ and _all that matters is that you can love_ scratched out in favor of _all that matters is you’re here_ , then felt guilty for doing it. Jaskier had once told him that the words he cut out from his songs were always the ones he felt too vulnerable to sing to an audience. His songs were like a diary.

Geralt closed the book. He glanced back once at Jaskier, then pulled his hood over his head and slipped out of the room.

Geralt woke the stable hand to unlock Roach’s stall. The boy rubbed at his eyes and wandered off as Geralt began tacking his mare, mumbling about bloody Witchers and sleep. Geralt swung into Roach’s saddle, then nudged his heels into her flank and walked her from the stable. 

*

Jaskier jerked away as someone outside the room shouted. He groaned and rubbed at his eyes, then flung his hand out automatically onto the bed.

It hit the sheets. Jaskier frowned, then pushed up.

Geralt was gone. His things, too. Jaskier felt the other side of the bed, but it was cold. 

“That bloody Witcher,” Jaskier hissed under his breath, shoving out of the bed. “Proud piece of shit –”

His quill had dripped ink onto the writing desk over the night. Jasker glared, because he never left ink to spill and waste. His songbook was closed, too, where he had left it open the afternoon before. Jaskier flipped it open, going back to where he had been working, then found several pages stained by a single drop of ink.

Nothing else. Jaskier scowled, much like his Witcher would do, and shut the book with a snap. He dressed quickly, then headed downstairs.

“Excuse me!” he called to the innkeeper. “Tell me, good man, what time did the Witcher leave this morning?”

“Last night!” the innkeeper answered him. “Near the third hour’a the morning; woke my boy up to fetch his horse, an’ off he went!”

Jaskier forced a smile. “Thank you,” he answered. “Do me a favor, give me a bottle of your strongest liquor?”

The innkeeper fetched it. Jaskier took it, without a cup, and went back up to his room. He yanked the cork from the bottle and drank straight from it. The alcohol burned his throat and settled in his gut with a heaviness that reminded him he hadn't eaten, but Jaskier drank until he had to come up for air. He gasped, and then belched noisily and grimaced.

“To emotionally constipated Witchers,” Jaskier toasted the silent room. “May my fool heart learn its lesson at last.”

Jaskier continued to drink.


	5. Give Me Two Damn Minutes and I’ll Be Fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _herein are a couple of my favorite scenes in this whole thing; ciri annoying geralt and lambert fucking jaskier. yeah, that happens._

##  **_(5) Give Me Two Damn Minutes and I’ll Be Fine._ **

  
  


A soldier in Cintran colors rode into Geralt’s camp near the middle of summer. He blared a trumpet, as if he hadn't scared off every animal in earshot with the clanging of his horse’s armor, then hopped down and stomped up to Geralt where he sat oiling his swords to hold out a bound scroll.

“From Her Majesty, the Lioness of Cintra, Queen Calanthe,” the soldier said pompously.

Geralt grimaced and took the scroll. The soldier snapped to attention and then just stood there. Geralt raised his eyebrows. The soldier stared into the distance.

“Are you going to just stand there?” Geralt asked him.

“I am to escort you to Cintra’s capital,” the soldier replied.

“Are you?” Geralt said. “Do I have a say in it?”

“Uh, read the message, sir,” the soldier requested.

Geralt pursed his lips and broke the wax seal on the scroll, releasing the ribbons binding it. He unfolded it and flicked his eyebrows up at the waste of ink and paper that was the header, then skimmed over the introduction and got to the important bit.

_ It is, at this point, my last option to ask your help with our dragon problem. _

Geralt sighed. He read it again, this time actually taking in the information, and scowled at the price Calanthe offered; an insult, at best, but he really doubted they had a dragon on their hands. He folded it up again, however, and tucked it into his shirt, then picked up his sword again and resumed caring for it.

The soldier glanced at him. “Shouldn’t – Shouldn’t we ride out?”

“It’s late,” Geralt replied. “My horse is tired. Don’t you have a tent?”

The soldier broke form. He sighed heavily and went to his horse. Geralt ignored him and went back to his sword.

*

Jaskier returned to Oxenfurt; the lute given to him by Filavandrel, the Elven King, was in need of new strings and a good polishing and he in need of a good bath. His heart was heavy, his boots nearly worn through, and his songbook was full.

For the past twenty years, he had been writing songs about Geralt and playing them to whoever would listen. Now, his muse had left him once again and Jaskier feared it was for the last time. He didn’t know what he’d done. He couldn’t remember if he’d said something wrong to Geralt while tipsy that night in Ellander or if Geralt had left simply because he cared that little. 

Though unrequited, Jaskier loved him. He had one last great song to write about Geralt, but this one wouldn’t lament what they could have had. He had worked tirelessly over the past twenty years to change public opinion on Witchers, and he wasn’t done.

He had the scribbles of an epic in written throughout his songbook. His professors at Oxenfurt always said that the best epics were written about the unlikeliest of heroes. Well, Jaskier knew better. The world didn’t need a hero, it needed a professional, and that was what he would tell them.

And if he poured a little bit of lamenting into it, who would care? Not Geralt. Jaskier had released that hope at long last. 

*

Geralt followed the soldier back to Cintra in the morning. It took two days’ ride after that, but it would have been faster if the soldier’s poor horse wasn’t laden with so much chainmail and scale armor. 

Finally, they were outside the city. The soldier – Geralt hadn't bothered learning his name – blew his trumpet and answering shouts from inside the gates preceded the gates opening. Geralt exhaled heavily.

“Let’s get this over with,” he growled.

“Make way!” the soldier yelled ahead of Geralt. “Make way for the Queen’s Witcher, make way!”

“I haven’t accepted the contract yet,” Geralt muttered under his breath.

People made way. Soon, they were outside the castle and stablehands took the horses. Roach snorted irritably at the boy to take her reigns and Geralt felt bad at sending her off.

“Through here, sir,” the solider told him importantly.

Geralt walked past him, having remembered the way.

“Sir!” the boy called after him. “Sir, wait!”

Geralt merely ignored him. He heard the soldier chasing after him, catching up, and kept walking.

“I’m meant to escort you,” the soldier insisted.

Geralt grunted. He pushed open the doors to the throne room and main hall, startling the guards on the other side, and strode right in. Chatter inside cut out at once. Geralt headed into the center of the room, the soldier moving quickly to keep up with him.

Calanthe scowled from her throne, her cheek lifting from her fist. Geralt scowled right back at her.

“You deigned to show up,” Calanthe mused.

“You deigned to ask,” Geralt countered. “You have a dragon?”

Calanthe huffed. Several of the random citizens in the hall looked scandalized. The Prince Consort Eist – Geralt was almost sure that was his name – sat to Calanthe’s right, a smirk on his lips. On her left was a young girl in a miniature version of Calanthe’s crown.

Geralt’s eyes flicked to her and away. He didn’t see Pavetta or her husband.

“It’s destroying crops and forests in the south,” Calanthe said. “My best men have failed to kill it.”

Geralt hummed. “Does it have two legs, four, or none?”   


“I beg your pardon?” Calanthe retorted. “Does it matter how many legs the beast has got? Can you kill it or not?”

“Well, if it’s got two legs it’s a wyvern,” Geralt replied with a sneer. “If it’s got four, it’s a dragon. If it hasn’t any, it’s a wyrm.”

“Does it matter?” Calanthe snapped. “Will you kill it or not?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Geralt answered. “Exactly where was it last spotted?”

“In the Marnadall Valley, just west of Tigg,” Calanthe said. “Shall I send reinforcements with you?”

“No,” Geralt said, already turning to leave.

“Shall I pay you now or when you come back?” Calanthe shouted after him.

“If I come back,” Geralt replied.

Calanthe laughed. Geralt let the doors to the throne room shut with a clang.

*

Jaskier knocked on the door of Triss’s cottage, soaking wet and shivering. He hugged his lute case to his chest, bemoaning the water leaking inside of it and the damage it would be doing to his poor, dear lute.

A beat passed and no answer came. Jaskier banged again, a Geraltian growl ripping from his throat.

“TRISS, YOU WASTE OF A WITCH, OPEN THE DOOR!” Jaskier yelled.

He kept banging until the door opened. Triss gasped at the sight of him and grabbed his arm, yanking him inside.

“Oh, my poor boy, I’m so sorry!” she said. “I didn’t realize it was you!”

“I–it’s–s ok–kuh–kay,” Jaskier answered, though his teeth were chattering and he was shivering violently.

“You’ll catch your death of cold!” Triss bemoaned, pulling him towards the hearth. 

Jaskier fell before it and, with fingers fumbling from his wet and freezing gloves, unlocked his lute case and took the lute out. He let out a broken moan seeing the water stains already warping the wood’s surface.

“Jaskier,” Triss murmured, kneeling beside him. “You need to get out of these wet clothes.”

“C–can you fix i–it?” Jasker asked her, holding up his beloved lute.

Triss sighed and took it, then waved her hand over it. The water pulled from wood’s surface and formed a bubble in the air, but the wood remained warped.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she offered, “but I don’t know how to repair wood like this.”

Jaskier hung his head, then sneezed.

“Take your clothes off,” Triss ordered. “Before I disintegrate them for you.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Jaskier mumbled, but he began unlacing his doublet.

Triss helped him out of his sopping clothes and wrapped him instead in a thick, warm cloak. It smelled like her; her herbs, the sweet odor of the smoke, and her gentle Alpha scent. Jaskier pulled it tightly around him, but sneezed again.

“I’ll whip something up for that,” Triss promised, her hand falling in his wet hair. 

Jaskier felt heat from her palm, then his hair and all his body were dry; the cloak was even warmer, as well.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

“Do you need more salve?” Triss asked. “Is that why you’re back so soon?”

“No,” Jaskier said, then sneezed twice in a row. “Gods, I knew I should’ve bought a leather cloak, unfashionable as they may be.”

“You should’ve,” Triss said. “Why didn’t your Witcher force one on you?”

Jaskier let out his breath, his gaze dropping into the fire. He shook his head.

“Jaskier?” Triss asked.

Jaskier pulled his songbook out of the lining of his lute case and sighed. The water had gotten to it. He opened it, looking through the pages, but the ink was run and every word was smeared, smudged, or destroyed.

Triss knelt down in front of him, touching his arm.

“Let me,” she offered.

Jaskier handed it to her. She held it in one hand, her other hand above it, and like with the lute, she drew the water from the pages. Jaskier watched the ink draw back into the proper places, the pages dry out and flatten, but the cover remained damaged.

“I’m sorry,” Triss said, handing it back.

“It was full anyway,” Jaskier told her.

“What brings you back to Oxenfurt?” Triss asked again.

Jaskier flipped to the very back, where he’d written snippets and lines of  _ The Witcher. _

“I have an epic to write,” he said.

Triss took it again and smiled automatically, but it faded into something sad as she flipped through the pages.

“Does your Witcher know?” she asked.

Jaskier took it back, closing the faded pages.

“He’s not my Witcher,” he said. 

“Since when?” Triss asked.

“Since always,” Jaskier told her. “He was never mine.”

Triss’s face fell. Jaskier poured the water from his lute’s case, took out his mangled quill, and set aside his inkjar. At least it survived unscathed; ink was costly.

“I’ll give you a fresh book,” Triss said.

“No, don’t worry about it,” Jaskier answered. “I’ll buy another one.”

“I shall give you one,” Triss insisted, her lips curling in another smile. “And you shall accept it with grace and a blush, like you do all my gifts.”

“It’s because you’re shit at courting,” Jaskier chuckled. “You only give me things I need, never things I’d want.”

“Like what?” Triss laughed. “Like you  _ don’t _ want a new songbook, for free?”

Jaskier looked down and despite himself, he blushed. But he chuckled, because she was right. Then he sneezed again.

“Medicine,” Triss said, standing. “Stay by the fire, boy.”

Jaskier smiled, as he always did when she called him such sweet names. 

*

Geralt found a fire wyrm in the Marnadal valley; no dragon or even a wyvern. He dispatched it and took its head, then returned to Cintra. He kept the head wrapped in cloth and his hood low to enter the city without fanfare or announcements. He rode straight to the castle, but was stopped by guards at the gate.

“Lower your hood!” one ordered.

Geralt pushed it back just enough to show his face. The guards glanced at each other.

“Queen Calanthe did not expect you to return alive,” the other called.

Geralt bared his teeth. “Yet here I am.”

They opened the gate. Geralt gave Roach to the stablehands and walked into the castle, the wyrm’s head still covered in the cloth. Guards followed him, but Geralt walked faster than they did. He threw open the doors to the throne hall again and as he strode inside, unraveled the head of the wyrm.

“Witcher,” Calanthe greeted.

Geralt tossed the head into her lap. “That’s a wyrm, not a dragon.”

Calanthe leaped up, the head falling from her knees to hit the ground and roll, squelching. She made a disgusted sound and servants rushed forward to wipe the blood from her dress. The little girl sat on her left covered her mouth and giggled.

Calanthe looked up then and glared at Geralt. “I have half a mind to have you beheaded,” she growled.

“You can try,” Geralt laughed. “But since we have a contract, I’d prefer my payment, plus a place to stay for the night and a hot meal.”

Calanthe drew back her lips but didn’t quite bare her teeth. The girl on her left sniggered and Prince Eist coughed into his hand to disguise his smile.

“Very well,” Calanthe growled. “Ibotta, show the good Witcher to a room.”

A maid walked up to him and bowed. Geralt inclined his head to her, then back to Calanthe.

“I believe you agreed to pay a hundred thousand ducat for that head,” he reminded her.

“I agreed to pay a hundred thousand ducat for a dragon,” Calanthe said, flicking blood off her fingers. “This, as you said, is a wyrm. I will give you a thousand.”

“I told you before I left that it probably wasn’t a dragon,” Geralt reminded her. “I agreed to a hundred thousand. I won’t take a coin less.”

“Are you arguing with me?” Calanthe asked. “With  _ me? _ ”

“Yes,” Geralt said plainly.

The girl to her left let out a shrill giggle and stopped it with her palm. Calanthe glanced carefully at her, then huffed and waved to a court servant to the side. The servant walked up to the maid standing by Geralt and handed her a sack, which she then handed to Geralt. Geralt took it and weighed it in his hand; it was fucking heavy.

Geralt nodded to Calanthe, then turned to go. The maid quickly followed him.

His sharp ears picked up a soft voice whisper: “Grandmother, I like him.”

The throne room doors shut.

*

Jaskier had lived with Triss once as a younger man; when she had still been perfecting his salve, she sheltered him in her home while he still felt vulnerable and too exposed. It was much the same now that he was older, though he had grown much in confidence. She fussed about his eating habits and scolded him for leaving his things out and tugged on his hair to show affection.

Triss was the mother he’d never had.

She gave him a fresh book, thick paper made from wood pulp and a leather binding that wrapped tight around the paper in all directions to protect it from water damage. Jaskier started to fill it at once.

He started with the story that began it all; the slaying of the elves at the Edge of the World. But he told the story correctly that time. There had been no slaying. Geralt had told Filavandrel to let Jaskier go and then bared his throat. Jaskier had learned since then that Witchers were simply taught to be at peace with death whenever it came for them. 

He had learned a lot about Witchers in the past twenty years.

*

“There will be a feast tonight,” the maid told Geralt. “We will draw you a bath and wash your clothes, sir.”

“Leave me, then,” Geralt answered.

The maid, along with help, filled a vast stone bath for him, adding oils and salts and soaps. They left and Geralt stripped out of his armor and clothes, putting it in the bedroom for them to collect, then sank into the bath. At once, he smelled chamomile.

_ “Oh, so you usually let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” _

Geralt had let Jaskier do no such thing. But he still thought of it every time he smelled chamomile.

Geralt stayed in the water until it got cold. When he left, his clothes were folded on the bed and his armor was laid out, repaired and polished. Geralt dressed and donned his armor again; he would never trust a party in Cintra ever again.

A knock sounded at the door. 

“Enter,” Geralt called, tightening his vambraces.

The door opened, though just a small amount, and no footsteps entered. Geralt turned to see who it was and stopped, holding still.

The little girl wearing Calanthe’s tiara stood in the crack between the doors, looking on curiously. Geralt looked down again to buckle his vambraces.

“We’re having a feast, not a battle,” the girl said.

“Forgive me if I am wary of a fight at all times,” Geralt answered.

“What’s the difference between a wyrm and a dragon?”

“Dragons are much, much larger,” Geralt said. “And more intelligent. Wyrms are big flying snakes that breathe fire. Sometimes. Some breathe poison gas.”

The girl slipped into the room and darted to his side. “Have you ever fought a dragon?”

“No,” Geralt told her. “They don’t live here anymore.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Humans drove them away,” Geralt said. “Much like the elves, only elves can’t cross oceans without fleets of ships.”

“How are elves and dragons alike?” the girl pressed.

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You’re very observant,” the girl retorted.

“What’s your name?” Geralt countered, crossing his arms over his chest.

She puffed up her chest and shoulders; she looked almost exactly like her grandmother, but for the nose and the hair.

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” she said. “You saved my father’s life before I was born.”

Geralt’s lips turned down in a sour expression. “I did,” he grumbled. 

“And you claimed me in the Law of Surprise,” Cirilla added.

“Who told you that?” Geralt demanded.

“The boys in the city,” Cirilla said. “They heard it from their parents. Are you going to marry me?”

Geralt drew back, his face twisting in a moment of utter revulsion. “No,” he said vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Cirilla asked. “That’s how my parents were married.”

Geralt inhaled heavily and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Well,” he said, “mostly because I’m a hundred years old and you’re – seven? Eight?”

“Nine!” Cirilla corrected him with a scowl.

“Nine,” Geralt said. “You are nine years old, and I am a hundred.”

“My father was older than my mother,” Cirilla pointed out.

“Not ninety years older,” Geralt insisted. “Are you arguing in favor of marrying me?” he added, incredulous.

Cirilla shrugged. “I don’t know what else you’ll do with me, I can’t become a Witcher because I’m not a boy.”

Geralt exhaled forcefully and rubbed at his eyes. “That’s a stupid assumption,” he said. “Just because no one has seen a female Witcher in years, that must mean we’re all men. No, you could be a Witcher, but I’m not going to turn you into one.”

“Why not?” Cirilla asked.

“Because!” Geralt snapped. “Did you have a reason to come here other than to pester me?”

“No,” Cirilla said plainly.

Geralt blinked at her. She smirked and he was reminded, somehow, of Jaskier. The two of them would get along well.

“You are going to stay here with your parents where you belong,” Geralt said firmly. “Tomorrow, I will leave and hopefully not have to come back, and that will be the end of this – this Law of Surprise bullshit.”

Cirilla’s eyes lit up as she grinned and she covered her mouth to giggle. “You swore,” she said. “Grandmother doesn’t let me swear; maybe that’s why she doesn’t want you to have me. But my parents died when I was a baby.”

Geralt frowned again. “Oh,” he said. “I’m… sorry.”

“I never knew them,” Cirilla replied with a shrug. “Do you swear often?”

Geralt sighed and covered his eyes. “When does the feast start?” he grumbled. “I want a fucking ale.”

Cirilla laughed again.

Geralt growled under his breath and just left the room. He threw his swords onto his back as he walked, but despite his growl and the massive swords strapped to his back, Cirilla followed him. She ran to catch up with him and Geralt gave her a slow, disinterested side-eye before ignoring her totally.

“Why wouldn’t you turn me into a Witcher?” Cirilla asked.

Geralt let out a menacing hum and looked out the windows as he walked.

“I think it is because I’m a girl,” Cirilla added. “If I were a boy, you’d take me to the Witcher keep. What’s it called?”

Geralt looked at her sideways again, then away.

“Mousesack will tell me,” Cirilla pressed. “Mousesack told me you’re a very powerful warrior. He also said Destiny will force you to do something with me eventually.”

“Destiny isn’t real,” Geralt retorted. “No fates or hags control our lives; we do as we must and that’s all.”

“Mousesack said you’d say something like that,” Cirilla answered smugly. “He also said that you should teach me how to sword-fight.”

Geralt stopped mid-step and pivoted to look at her. Cirilla smiled innocently at him, hands folded behind her back. She was very small. He wasn't sure if human children were that small or he just hadn't been up close with one in a long time.

“Why would I do that?” Geralt asked.

“Because you’re the best swordsman he’s ever seen,” Cirilla said. “I’m the Lion Cub of Cintra, Master Witcher, I must know how to fight.”

“You have tutors,” Geralt countered.

“None of them are the best swordsman Mousesack has ever seen,” Cirilla replied.

Geralt leveled a finger at her. “What you’re doing is foolish and annoying,” he said. “Why don’t you run off and play with your dolls, Princess?”

“I played with them already and got bored,” Cirilla said dryly. “Mousesack said you’d say no.”

“So why are you still asking?” Geralt growled.

“Because,” Cirilla answered with a bright smile. “Will you teach me? There’s a few hours before the feast. We can go now.”

“No,” Geralt said, taking off again.

He had a long stride but Cirilla, despite barely coming up to his hip, matched him with fleetness of foot.

“I think you’re saying no because I’m a girl,” Cirilla told him. “Which is very unfair of you.”

“I’m saying no because I’m not a teacher, therefore, I’m not teaching you anything,” Geralt said.

“Because you’re misogynistic,” Cirilla countered.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Geralt muttered, taking an abrupt turn to avoid Cirilla.

“It means hatred or apathy towards women,” Cirilla answered, jogging to catch up with him. “The prefix  _ mis _ means hatred and  _ gyn _ means women or female. Like gynecology.”

“Fascinating,” Geralt replied scathingly.

“So you’re a misogynist,” Cirilla insisted.

“Because I won’t teach you to use a sword?” Geralt answered. “Wonderful. I’m still not teaching you.”   
  


“Or you’re cowardly,” Cirilla added. “Or both.”

Geralt turned on his heel to face Cirilla again, who smiled as she tucked her hands behind her back again. Geralt glared at her.

“Have you considered that I won’t turn you into a Witcher because our lives are fucking misery?” he snapped. “What child  _ wants _ to be taken from their homes and turned into a mutant killer? Do you want that, Princess? Would you like to forget your long, lovely name? Or have your grandmother turn her back on you? Have people spit in your face when you walk into town? Is that what you want?”

Cirilla’s smile dropped. She drew back, a color of fear slipping into her scent. Geralt felt both a sick satisfaction and relief. That was what she should have been doing from the beginning.

“No,” she said softly. “I just – I want to be able to fight as well as my grandmother.”

“You’ll learn,” Geralt told her shortly. “Now, stop pestering me.”

He turned on his heel again and strode off. Cirilla’s soft footsteps didn’t follow him. Geralt took a turn and followed a stairwell down, ending up in a courtyard garden.

Alone, Geralt found a clear patch of grass and sat down. He turned his face up towards the sunlight, permitted through the high, glass roof, and let out his breath as he rested his hands on his knees.

He felt bad for frightening the child. But it was better she knew sooner rather than later the truth about Witchers. The sooner she understood that, the sooner she’d run from Geralt, and destiny could run its course.

*

“Darling, what do you think, should I tell them about the Trials first or how they’re taken from their families first?” Jaskier asked Triss, waving his quill in the air.

“I would start at the beginning,” Triss answered him, studiously plucking hairs from her chin.

Jaskier nodded and pulled up a fresh sheet of paper. He rarely stuck to the rules of proper verse, but the flow of it was quite grand, he had to admit. Even if he bent the rules about his syllable placement now and then. After writing lyrically for so long, classical poetry came to him with a bit of difficulty, but in just a few days, he’d filled up the book Triss had given him and started a new one. 

Of course, he would take years to complete his epic. All the best poets committed such time to their work. He was determined to spread the truth about Witchers, after all.

*

Geralt’s meditation was interrupted by soft footsteps. He listened without opening his eyes and gauged a child was nearing him; the feet were light in slippers, the stride short, legs rustling through a skirt and petticoat.

Geralt clenched his fists on his knees and wondered what Cirilla was still doing.

“Are you asleep?” Cirilla hissed.

“No,” Geralt muttered.

He opened his eyes. Cirilla put a dummy almost twice her height down in front of him, then, standing on her toes, adjusted its arms before taking out a wooden sword from her belt.

“Teach me,” Cirilla demanded.

Geralt got up and started to leave.

“Just for an hour!” Cirilla called after him. “An hour and then I won’t bother you ever again! I just want to know!”

“That sounds familiar,” Geralt growled under his breath, thinking of how Jaskier had coerced him into permitting his attendance on that one fateful mission in Dol Blathana.

“Please!”

Geralt stopped in the doorway and exhaled. He rubbed at his temples, then shook his head and turned back.

“One hour,” he told Cirilla firmly. “Then you stick to your royal duties and get a proper tutor. Deal?”   
  


He stuck out his hand. Cirilla grinned and snatched herself away from him.

“Ah-ah!” she cried triumphantly. “One hour and  _ then _ if you’ve proven to be a poor teacher after all, I won’t bother you again.”

“That’s a terrible deal,” Geralt growled. “I don’t  _ want _ to teach you!”

“Give me a good reason that isn’t my sex and I shall accept that!” Cirilla answered.

“You’re a child,” Geralt said. “There.”

“You were a child when you were taught,” Cirilla countered. “Try again.”

Geralt blinked slowly at her. “You have plenty of time to learn –” he tried.

“But you’re here now, so why not get started?” Cirilla cut him off. “Again.”

“I’m not doing this,” Geralt muttered, turning to leave.

“I shall only pester you more!” Cirilla called after him.

“I shall leave Cintra tomorrow and never see you again,” Geralt reminded her smugly. “Have a nice life, Princess.”

“I’ll have my grandmother’s army track you down and pester you from afar!” Cirilla called again. “You’ll always regret that you didn’t take that one hour to prove that you are, in fact, an awful teacher!”

Geralt gritted his teeth at the doorway.

“Plus, there’s all of the feast tonight,” Cirilla added. “I’ll tell grandmother you refused to tutor me and she’ll threaten to behead you.”

“She’s done that before, she’ll never do it,” Geralt retorted.

Cirilla ran up to him then and, startling him into actually moving, she grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the center of the garden, where the haphazard dummy swayed a little in the breeze.

“I think you really are a good person,” Cirilla told him firmly. “And I shall forgive you for thinking little of me because I am a princess, because you are right, I have been raised in luxury and I have little experience of the real world. But you also are a very lonely man and it is my destined duty as your Child of Surprise to correct that."

Geralt blinked dumbfoundedly at her. She what now?

"So," Cirilla continued with a smirk, "take an hour now and teach me a few things and by the time we’re ready for the feast, destiny will influence you and you’ll grow to love me and decide to stay.”

Geralt continued to blink at her. “You are very sure of yourself,” he said.

“Thank you,” Cirilla answered with a grin.

“Destiny’s horseshit,” Geralt added. “Show me your stance.”

Cirilla grinned wider and picked up her sword to face off against the dummy. She stood with her feet much too far apart and her elbows high and spread out, exposing her middle. 

Geralt corrected her and had her swing at the dummy, then when she stumbled leading with the wrong foot, he started her on a few basic movements.

Before he knew it, the sun’s light was fading. Geralt cast a look at the sundial nearby and with a jolt, realized they’d spent over two hours in the garden with the dummy. Cirilla was still bouncing and full of energy, but the feast would be starting soon.

“We stop here,” Geralt said. “Be off with you, do whatever it is princesses do to prepare for parties.”

“I don’t get to stay for the party,” Cirilla replied. “Just for the dinner, then Grandmother will send me to bed before the fun starts. Because I’m a child.”

“Quite sensible,” Geralt answered. “Where did this dummy come from?”

“The barracks on the south corner,” Cirilla said. “The sword is mine, though, Mousesack helped me carve it, look!”

She held up the hilt to show him with a proud grin;  _ CIRI _ was etched into the end in careful letters.

“Very nice,” Geralt said stiffly. “Again, off with you.”

“Shall we do this again tomorrow?” Cirilla asked, holding her sword close.

“No, I’m leaving,” Geralt said, picking up the dummy.

“But you’re a grand teacher!” Cirilla insisted. “Please, Master Witcher, please stay?”

“No,” Geralt answered.

He walked away with the dummy, leaving Cirilla alone in the fading light. Geralt gathered his bearings and headed for the south side of the castle to return the straw man.

Geralt left it near the empty sparring ring, where several other dummies waited, and set off again for the feast. He followed the sound of voices and music, and just outside the doors to the hall, he was struck by a moment of panic.

What if Jaskier was there?

Geralt hadn't seen him since the day before Saovine, having left him in that inn to run away with the patter of his heart high in his throat. Cirilla had called him cowardly, which was bold; no one had ever called Geralt a coward.

But, as he stood frozen outside the feast, he considered that perhaps he was.

Geralt shoved himself forward. He entered the hall and scanned it at once for the musicians, his nostrils flaring for the scent of Jaskier’s salve. The bards and minstrels were gathered mostly in one corner, but Jaskier wasn’t among them. Geralt let out his breath and carried on.

He hadn't seen Yennefer since that night, either. He’d avoided confronting whatever the similarity between their scents meant; Jaskier’s was pleasant and inviting while Yennefer’s was consuming and almost sickening. Cintra refused mages, of course. There was little chance Geralt would run into her inside the country’s borders.

“Here, Witcher,” Calanthe called to him above the noise.

Geralt took a seat at her right, Prince Eist between them. Cirilla sat directly on Calanthe’s right, opposite Geralt, and she waved to him. Geralt ignored her.

“My granddaughter says you offered to teach her the way of the sword,” Calanthe then said.

Geralt jerked his gaze to Cirilla and glared. Cirilla smiled, exposing a missing tooth on her lower jaw; it was almost cherubic, but Geralt did not trust her.

“Your Majesty,” Geralt started carefully.

“Given your aid today,” Calanthe said, ignoring him, “I admit you would be a valuable teacher; you certainly have skill my men must lack. I have ordered for a more permanent residence to be prepared for you in the south wing. You will tutor Cirilla and a few of my men so that they may teach the rest of my soldiers.”

Geralt soured his face. Mousesack took the seat next to Cirilla and caught Geralt’s eye, then winked.

“I will pay you handsomely, of course,” Calanthe continued. “Fifty ducat per week you work for me.”

“That salary is only handsome if you’re blind,” Geralt retorted. “And besides, I never –”

“Fine, a hundred,” Calanthe cut him off again. “I won’t insist you work for me the year round as I don’t want to see your face that much, so you may spend your winters here to teach Cirilla.”

“I feel flattered,” Geralt growled. “I must say  _ no, _ however.”

Calanthe narrowed her eyes at him. “This was your idea,” she said coldly.

“This was your  _ granddaughter’s _ idea,” Geralt snapped. “She coerced me into giving her a lesson this afternoon and now she’s looking to manipulate you into keeping me here.”

Calanthe looked at Cirilla. Cirilla looked back with projected innocence.

“Didn’t we agree that you would teach me more if you proved to be good?” Cirilla asked Geralt.

Geralt jabbed a finger in her direction. “I agreed to  _ nothing, _ you little –”

“You will teach her,” Calanthe cut him off a third time with venom in her tone. “Or I shall have you locked in the dungeons to starve to death. Are we clear, Witcher?”

Cirilla glanced briefly at her grandmother, her face somewhat startled. Geralt worked his jaw side to side, then looked at Mousesack.

Mousesack raised his eyebrows as if to say  _ Destiny, my friend. _

“The latter half of winter to early spring,” Geralt snapped. “Between Imbaelk and and the end of Birke, a hundred ducat per  _ day. _ ”

“Twenty-five ducat a day,” Calanthe answered.

“Fifty,” Geralt countered. “Or I’ll destroy your dungeons, your Majesty.”

“Fine,” Calanthe said, waving a dismissive hand. “I have a contract for you to sign.”

A maid bustled up with a tray containing an inkpot, a quill, and a roll of parchment. Geralt took it and examined it throughly, marking in the changes to timing and salary they’d agreed on, before signing it. He handed it over and Calanthe signed it before pressing her signet ring into it.

Geralt scowled as his mug was filled with mead, but drank it. At least he had the rest of the year to prepare before Imbaelk.

*

As Lammas turned into Velen, Jaskier found himself missing the open road. His purse was low, as well, even though he had been living rent-free in Triss’s home and eating her food. It was high time he began to wander again.

“This will repel water,” Triss told him as she pushed a new lute case into his hands. “As will the instrument.”

Jaskier opened it and smiled at the sight of the new lute. Filavandrel’s gift, unfortunately, had been beyond repair. This new lute bore a cherry surface and detailed, painted etchings in its surface; dandelions and buttercups.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling Triss into a hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably be married long ago,” Triss joked, squeezing him. “With as many children as your mother.”

“Oh, gods, don’t make me think of that,” Jaskier laughed. 

Triss patted his cheek with a warm smile. “Take care of yourself, boy,” she said.

“Of course,” Jaskier agreed. “You do the same, darling.”

So he left Oxenfurt. He’d be back in a month or so, of course, but he had plenty of time to play across the country and gather coin in order to pay for company during his heat.

Near Vizima, Jaskier heard tell of a Witcher spending a week or two in the city while his horse recovered from an injury. His fool heart hopeful again, Jaskier found his way to the inn where the Witcher was staying.

“Pardon me,” he asked of the barmaid, “is there a Witcher staying here?”

“Aye,” she said, pointing over his shoulder to a corner. “There he is. Not the friendly type, lad, to warn ya.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier answered with a grin, pushing off the bar. “I’ll take two ales, please.”

She filled two mugs and Jaskier paid for them, then turned to head into the corner. His fool heart beat fast in his chest, but Jaskier moved quickly. His Witcher sat with his back to a wall, hood pulled low over his head, and gloved fists resting on the table. Jaskier put one mug down in front of him and then sat.

“Long time, no see,” Jaskier greeted.

The hooded man looked up and Jaskier was startled to not recognize the face. 

“Oh!” he gasped. “I am very sorry, my good man, I thought you were a friend of mine –”

The Witcher that wasn’t Geralt narrowed his eyes. Jaskier stood up again.

“I’ll leave you be,” Jaskier promised, bowing a little. “My apologies.”

“You must be that bard,” the Witcher mused; his voice was as different to Geralt’s as his face, lacking all the growly, rumbly qualities that made Jaskier weak at the knees. “The one singing about the good Geralt of Rivia, eh?”

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier admitted. “Hence, why I thought you were him –”

“Didn’t think Geralt the type to befriend anyone, let alone bards,” the Witcher added. “Since you bought me a drink, you can sit.”

Jaskier hesitated. The Witcher that wasn’t Geralt gestured to the chair Jaskier had just left before picking up the flagon to take a gulp. 

Jaskier was writing about all Witchers, not just Geralt. He sat.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Lambert,” the Witcher answered. “No fancy city to hail from; Geralt’s the oddity there, he’s the only one who picked a city.”

“Picked?” Jaskier pressed.

“Aye,” Lambert said. “He’s not really from Rivia, you knew that, right?”

“Yes, of course,” Jaskier lied. 

Lambert chuckled, his lips spreading in a grin. While Geralt’s hair was pure white, Lambert’s was a dark brown. Their eyes were the same; golden, pupils verticle slits. Lambert’s were dilated in the low light.

“You know we can smell a lie,” Lambert told him, his nostrils flaring. 

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed, shoulders deflating. “I didn’t know, you’re right.”   
  


Lambert chuckled. “Don’t be offended, bard. No Witcher is likely to share much about their life, Geralt’s not the exception there. Tell me, how did you become friends with my brother? He’s the prickliest sonuvabitch I ever met.”

“Through hard work and persistence,” Jaskier answered with a smile. “But, I’ll admit, I haven’t seen him in some time.”

“Might be dead,” Lambert told him, then when Jaskier frowned, he burst into a harsh laugh and leaned back in his chair.

Jaskier had never seen Geralt laugh like that. He’d never thought any Witcher would laugh so easily.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Lambert asked, still chuckling. “The brute’s kept clear of Kaer Morhen for near on twenty-five years now; last time I laid eyes on ‘im was the spring thaw of thirty-four.”

“Last Saovine,” Jaskier admitted. “But we tend to run into each other at least once a year, I’m sure he’ll show up soon.”

“Do you now?” Lambert asked, his lips curling in a sneer.

Jaskier smiled a bit forcefully. Lambert chuckled again.

“Did you fuck?” Lambert asked crudely.

“I beg your pardon?” Jaskier demanded.

Lambert continued to chuckle and stuck a finger into his fist. Jaskier found himself blushing.

“What makes you ask that?” he asked.

Lambert waved vaguely to his neck. “That shit’s no good on a Witcher, Omega,” he said. “Did you fuck?”

Jaskier felt like a stone dropped in his stomach. “What?” he just said. “I don’t –”

“You didn’t,” Lambert guessed. “Fair ‘nough, Geralt’s not the type for a casual lay; much prefers to pay for it an’ keep it professional. Shame. You’re mighty pretty.”

Jaskier opened and shut his mouth uselessly. “He –” he said, “I never – but – we –”

Lambert picked up his cup and drained it, then covered his mouth with a fist as he belched. “Do me a favor an’ fetch a refill, bard,” he requested, shoving the mug across to him. “I’ll even let you write a few songs about me; gimme some’a that fame you gave my brother.”

Jaskier picked up the cup and walked weakly to the bar. “For the Witcher,” he told the maid. “Would your establishment be in need of some entertainment for the night?” he asked belatedly.

“I’ll ask,” she said, filling the mug. 

Jaskier took it back to Lambert and sat gingerly again. Lambert drank several mouthfuls, then put it down and wiped his mouth.

“You wanted to,” he then said out of nowhere.

“Pardon?” Jaskier replied.

“You wanted to fuck Geralt,” Lambert insisted. “But didn’t?”

Jaskier was very uncomfortable with how easily Lambert sensed his thoughts. Had Geralt known all that time?

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I’m not his type, I imagine.”

Lambert shrugged. “Never asked,” he said. “I’m not nearly as picky as my brother when it comes the holes I fuck,” he added with another sneer.

Jaskier felt his heart and stomach swoop, a conditioned reaction to the offer of sex. He shrugged.

“I might be playing tonight,” he said, looking at the table between them. “Do you have a room?”

“Aye,” Lambert said. 

Jaskier glanced over his shoulder at the bar. The maid waved to him, grinning, then pointed to a small stage in the opposite corner. Jaskier got up.

“Then maybe I’ll see you later,” he said, giving Lambert a smirk.

Lambert chuckled and settled back into his seat. Jaskier left him there and crossed the room.

The maid offered him a mug to collect tips in. Jaskier launched into some drama pieces, all the old tales of heroes across the Continent, a few classic love ballads. He sang nothing about Geralt, and quickly realized how little he had that wasn’t about his Witcher.

“Give us the coin one!” someone called.

Jaskier smiled and plucked the opening notes on his lute. His mind went back to his poem and the day he and Geralt left the elves at the Edge of the World; Geralt had scolded him for twisting the story the way he did.

“When a humble bard, graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song…”

At the end of the night, Jaskier filled his purse back up with the tips from the tavern crowd. They’d been pleased with his songs, even though he had played little of his own work. As most of the patrons streamed out, Jaskier caught Lambert’s eye in the far corner.

Lambert’s lips curled into an easy smile under his hood. He stood from his seat and headed for the stairs, then paused, waiting. Jaskier, his heart thudding in his chest, tied his coin purse and climbed down from the stage. He crossed the tavern and joined Lambert on the stairs.

“There’s a good lad,” Lambert chuckled, dropping a heavy hand onto Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier shivered at the praise and smiled as he pressed closer. Lambert grinned before guiding him forward by the grip on his shoulder, to the third floor and a room near the back. Lambert unlocked it and let Jaskier in first. Jaskier took his lute case and satchel off his shoulder and Lambert shut the door again, then locked it. Jaskier turned back to face him and Lambert crowded him against the wall.

“Anybody ever tell you them fingers are sexy?” he asked.

“A few,” Jaskier replied.

Lambert lifted his arms by the wrists and pinned them against the wall, lacing their fingers together. “I’d like to see you play my cock as nice as you play that lute,” he growled.

“Lucky for you, I’m skilled with both,” Jaskier offered. 

“And is your mouth as talented when you’re not singing?” Lambert asked.

Jaskier licked his lips and smirked. “Shall I show you?”

Lambert grinned. He pushed off Jaskier and stepped back, releasing his belt. Jaskier pulled off the wall and slid to his knees in front of Lambert, his hands running up the leather armor covering his legs. Lambert tangled a hand in his hair and tugged his cock out with the other. Jaskier, a rush in his head already from the smell of lust, eagerly took it in his mouth.

He showed his skill with his fingers and mouth. Lambert came with a groan and Jaskier swallowed every drop, ending by mouthing and fondling his balls. Lambert let out a carefree laugh and pulled Jaskier up by his doublet, then gave him half a toss, half a shove, and he landed on the bed.

“Let’s see you sing with a cock up your ass,” he offered, stroking his already thickening cock.

“Ah,” Jaskier answered, flushing hot with mixed emotions. “Can I just use my mouth on you for now?”

“I won’t knock you up, pretty thing,” Lambert offered. “Swear on me life, sterile as they come.”

Jaskier licked his lips, his gaze fixed on Lambert’s dick; it had felt so nice in his mouth. He squeezed his thighs together, feeling himself wet with desire.

“C’mon,” Lambert crooned, “I know you want it, darlin’. Lemme get my hands on your pretty cock, huh?”

“Here’s the thing,” Jaskier started weakly as Lambert pushed him back onto the bed. 

Lambert grabbed his crotch, clearly intending to palm his length. Jaskier still gasped, his eyes fluttering shut from the flash of pleasure, but Lambert drew back a little bit as he frowned.

“You don’t have a dick,” Lambert said dumbly.

“I do!” Jaskier insisted. “It’s just much smaller than yours and in a slightly different place.”

“I’m confused,” Lambert added, frowning at Jaskier while his cock started drooling pre-cum onto his trousers. “Are you a man or not?”

“I am!” Jaskier retorted crossly. “Don’t be rude! My anatomy is just slightly different than yours.”

“Is it an Omega thing?” Lambert asked. “I’ve never fucked a male Omega.”

Jaskier hesitated, then shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, though he knew Lambert would be able to tell he was lying. “That’s it.”

Lambert shrugged and put his hand between Jaskier’s legs to cup him instead. Jaskier gasped again, rocking against his hand, and Lambert put a hand on his neck to push his jaw back and kiss along his throat.

“Have you got a cunt, then?” Lambert asked.

“Yeah,” Jaskier mumbled. “But you can fuck me from the back.”

“Fine with me,” Lambert agreed. “On your knees, front, or back?”

Jaskier just nodded. Lambert laughed, then let him go and Jaskier turned back, crawling up the bed on his hands and knees, and took a second to yank his doublet and tunic over his head. He unlaced his trousers and Lambert helped him pull them down. Jaskier dropped onto his side to kick them off and Lambert clambered over him to kiss down his shoulders.

“Fuckin’ smell good,” Lambert rumbled. “Can’t imagine what kinda fool wouldn’t wanna fuck you, bard.”

“Me neither,” Jaskier laughed hollowly.

“Lemme get oil,” Lamber offered. “‘Less your ass gets wet like your cunt?”

“Oil,” Jaskier just said.

Lambert climbed off the bed. Jaskier laid out on his side and watched Lambert strip out of his armor, down to just his trousers, in between looking through his bags for an appropriate oil. He made a triumphant sound when he found some and climbed back onto the bed with Jaskier to run a hand down Jaskier’s chest to his crotch.

“This your dick?” Lambert asked, thumbing between his legs.

Jaskier hummed. He lifted a knee and Lambert fell onto his other hip to look at him; he whistled.

“Looks like a clit,” he said. “But lots bigger than any clit I've seen before.”

“It’s a dick,” Jaskier snapped. “And if you call it that again I will walk out of here at once.”

“Alright, alright, no offense,” Lambert answered, kissing his knee. “On your front, songbird.”

Jaskier rolled over. Lambert grabbed his ass and squeezed it a few times, then ran two slick fingers between his cheeks. Jaskier relaxed into the bed and enjoyed the feeling.

“You know, a Witcher can go for hours at a time,” Lambert told him. “Me, I don't go soft 'til I blow my knot.”

“Knot me then,” Jaskier agreed easily.

Lambert chuckled and squeezed his ass again. “There’s a good songbird.”

Near dawn, Jaskier was near ready to pass out and Lambert finally seemed ready to let him. One last fuck and Lambert knotted him. Then he collapsed onto his side and pulled Jaskier into a loose embrace. Jaskier settled his nose against Lamber’s upper arm, near a thick scar, and hummed in a happy way.

“You wanna sleep here, songbird?” Lambert asked.

Jaskier shrugged. Lambert drew him in a little closer and Jaskier did easily fall asleep. Lambert wasn’t Geralt, he felt different, he smelled different, and he was maybe an inch shorter than Jaskier, but that was alright. He didn’t need Geralt, after all.

*

As autumn ebbed into winter, Geralt wandered south. He found Yennefer again in Pomerol. Well, more like she found him.

“Hello, Witcher,” she said as she slid into a seat next to him at the bar. “Long time, no see?”

“Fuck off, witch,” Geralt said, raising his mug to his lips.

“Come now,” Yennefer answered, “is that anyway to treat a friend, Geralt?”

“I wasn’t aware we were friends,” Geralt said.

She laughed. Her hand touched his arm and very suddenly, Geralt smelled lilacs and gooseberries. His mind started to ease, and then sudden anger ripped him away from Yennefer.

“What’s wrong?” Yennefer asked, her pretty face turning in a frown.

“You,” Geralt snarled. “You’ve been bewitching me since the day we met, haven’t you? I’ve been under your spell this whole time!”

“Geralt,” Yennefer chuckled, “if you were under my spell, I wouldn’t let you wander wherever you wished.”

Geralt bared his teeth. “What’s your real scent?” he demanded. “Because I know it’s not fucking lilacs!”

Yennefer thinned her lips and got up. “Let’s walk,” she offered.

Geralt looked around, and there were people watching. Though seething, he grabbed his coin purse and followed Yennefer from the bar.

“I have never been accused of falsifying my scent with magic,” Yennefer said once they were outside.

“But you’re doing it,” Geralt insisted.

Yennefer turned down an empty road and Geralt followed her. She stopped and moved to face him.

“Fine,” she said. “I did use magic to alter my scent; that’s common among mages. But I have not been using that to trick you into fucking me. I can get enough sex on my own.”

“That’s still a trick!” Geralt snapped. “You’ve been mimicking Jaskier this whole time! Admit it!”

Yennefer shrugged. “You’re attracted to him,” she agreed. “I’m amazed that it took you this long to figure it out.”

Geralt bared his teeth in an angry sneer. Yennefer exhaled in exasperation.

“If I hadn't mimicked Jaskier’s scent, you might not have had me,” she admitted. “We’re drawn to each other, Geralt, you can’t deny that –”

“I would never have had you!” Geralt cut her off sharply. “I never had anyone I didn't pay except you, for good reason! You put out that scent and it fucks with my head, Yennefer! I lose track of my senses and all I can think about is you!”

Yennefer smirked. “I’m flattered, Geralt –”

“I’m not in love with you!” Geralt cut her off sharply. “Your magic  _ fucks _ with my head! Every time we’ve been together, it’s because you’ve manipulated me and warped my thinking!”

“We’re drawn to one another,” Yennefer repeated, “that’s what it is –”

“Shut up,” Geralt growled. “No. You’re not listening to me.”

“Mimicking another’s scent doesn’t affect people like that!” Yennefer insisted.

“It might not work that way on a human, but I’m not human,” Geralt countered. “Did you think about that, Yennefer?”

Yennefer drew back, thinning her lips again. “I care about you,” she said quietly. “I was worried that you might not see me for who I am if you knew what I am.”

“It doesn’t matter what you are or what you think is between us,” Geralt retorted. “You looked into my head, you knew what my feelings are, and you just used magic to get what you wanted anyway with no regard for what it would do to me!”

Yennefer shrugged. “You won’t act on them,” she said. “You let him go.”

“How does that excuse your actions?” Geralt demanded. “How does that change the fact that you’ve bewitched me each and every time?”

“Geralt,” Yennefer sighed. “I didn’t realize that it would affect you so strongly. I’m sorry. I only wanted us to have a chance. The truth is that I’m like you – I’m mutated.”

Geralt drew back, reeling. “What?”   
  


“Aretuza changed me,” Yennefer said. “They turned me into something else. I’m not an Omega, Geralt, not anymore, I’m a cross-breed of Alpha and Omega.”

“I don’t –” Geralt started, “I don’t understand what that has to do with this.”

“I am both and neither,” Yennefer explained. “I never reveal my real scent because of that, people respond to it the same way that they respond to Witchers. With disgust and judgment.”

“And this made you decide to pursue me?” Geralt answered. “With tricks and lies to ensure I’d follow your whims?”

“Geralt,” Yennefer sighed again.

Geralt held up a hand, then turned and walked away. He heard her curse behind him, but he didn’t go back.

*

Jaskier traveled with Lambert for a few weeks, and he did write a few songs about him, but his nesting instincts began to kick in and Lambert wanted to leave Redania, which wouldn’t give him much time to get back to Oxenfurt.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to part ways,” Jaskier told him. 

“Fair,” Lambert agreed easily. “Your heat?”

Jaskier drew back, but Lambert only smirked. “You can smell it?” he asked.

Lambert laughed. “Have for the past two weeks, songbird. Yannow, you could always stay with me for it,” he offered with a grin.

Jaskier shook his head. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but I’d rather go home.”

“Fair,” Lambert answered. “I’ll get you back wherever that is, then.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, a little humbled.

That night, in his tent while Lambert snored in his own, Jaskier wondered if Geralt had been able to smell his oncoming heat, too. They’d always been conveniently near Oxenfurt in the week or two of his nesting period. He’d never thought about that before.

Geralt must have known. He could’ve offered to keep Jaskier company like Lambert had done. Yet, he’d never said a word.

Jaskier slept poorly that night.

*

Geralt took the long road to Kaer Morhen that winter. It had been a long time since he’d last set foot in the fortress, but he needed the rest. Confronting Yennefer left him bitter and angry and he had to face his Child Surprise in just a few months. He could use Vesemir’s advice.

“The White Wolf!” Eskel cried as Geralt dismounted his horse. “He finally returns!”   
  


Geralt just nodded to him as he walked Roach towards the stables.

“Hey, brother!” Lambert shouted after him. “I met your songbird!”

Geralt stopped. Lambert was laughing as Geralt turned back, his brow knit together. Eskel sniggered and Clovis, picking at his teeth with a dagger, was grinning. Or it was just the dagger by his gums.

“My what?” Geralt asked.

“Your bard,” Lambert said, grinning widely. “Aye, traveled with ‘im for a few weeks in Lammas. He sings nice an’ pretty.”

Lambert winked, elbowing Eskel. Geralt clenched his jaw and turned back, clicking his tongue at Roach.

“I offend you?” Lambert called after him. “Should’a had ‘im first, brother!”

Geralt growled wordlessly under his breath. He pulled Roach into the stables, leaving Lambert, Eskel, and Clovis’s laughter behind him.

Geralt left Roach with a blanket over her back and a trough of barley, a favorite treat of hers. He went straight into the keep, ignoring Eskel and Lambert and Clovis now greeting Berengar, and followed his nose until he found Vesemir, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a book.

“You see Lambert yet?” Vesemir asked before he even saw Geralt.

“Yeah,” Geralt growled. “Need to ask you something.”

Vesemir looked up from his book. Geralt sat down across from him and leaned the chair back onto two legs right away.

“Calanthe of Cintra hired me to train her granddaughter,” he said. “How the fuck do I teach a kid?”

“Why the fuck did you agree?” Vesemir countered, blinking in clear bewilderment.

“I was sort of threatened into it,” Geralt said, his lip turning in a partial smirk, partial sneer. “Cirilla, the princess, got her grandmother to think it was my idea and Calanthe said she’d have me locked up to starve if I didn’t do it.”

“How much are they paying you?” Vesemir asked.

“Fifty ducat a day,” Geralt said. “Two months out of the year.”

Vesemir whistled. “That’s not bad, kid.”

“So how do I train her?” Geralt asked. “Cirilla.”

Vesemir shrugged, laying his book down in front of him. “See what her learning style is, try not to shout at her too much. Calanthe might have you locked up to starve anyway if you make her granddaughter cry.”

Geralt grunted, looking with a scowl at the table. Vesemir got up, then came back with two glasses of whiskey.

“You have a songbird,” he said, sitting down again. “But Lambert has fucked him.”

“He’s not mine,” Geralt growled, taking the whiskey.

“Are you going to disembowel Lambert for it?” Vesemir asked.

Geralt gritted his teeth, then downed the drink. “Maybe,” he said.

“Do it outside,” Vesemir answered calmly, picking up his book again. “I don’t want the smell in the carpets.”

*

Jaskier had a new account to enter into his poem, and came up with a brilliant plan. He would wander the Continent, not just aimless, but on the look for Witchers. He would spend a few weeks, maybe two months, traveling with them, then write the things that made them smile into his songbook.

In the spring, he met a heavily scarred man named Eskel.

“I know you,” Eskel said with a polite smile. “You’re Geralt’s songbird, aren’t you?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t call me Geralt’s anything,” Jaskier laughed easily. “But, yes, I wrote several songs about him.”

“And Lambert!” Eskel said, chuckling. “Do you mean to write some about me now?”

“Yes, actually,” Jaskier answered.

Eskel laughed at that.

In the fall, Jaskier ran into Lambert again. Lambert leered at him and asked whose bed he intended to fall into at the end of the night. Jaskier stuck his nose in the air, but he got into Lambert’s bed before long.

There were fewer Witchers at work during the winter because they typically spent the season in Kaer Morhen, Jaskier found out. Geralt had spent the last winter, after Jaskier met Lambert, there, but after that, he heard rumors that Geralt was spending time in Cintra with the princess during the spring.

Jaskier thought it good for him.

In the next spring, Jaskier met a much older Witcher.

“Vesemir,” he introduced himself. “You’re the bard?”

“Jaskier, the one and only!” Jaskier answered happily.

“Do you have a fetish for Witchers?” Vesemir asked.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier spluttered.

“I ask because you’ve now written songs about three of my pupils,” Vesemir said. “Eskel said you didn’t fuck him, but Lambert won’t quit throwing it in Geralt’s face and Geralt looks like he’s had blue balls since meeting you. I will not sleep with you.”

“I –” Jaskier said, flustered. “No! No, I’m writing about you. The Witchers, I mean.”

“You are?” Vesemir answered. “May I hear it?”

Jaskier traveled with him for just a few weeks, but played what he had of his epic a few times for him. Vesemir offered feedback and critique and a new perspective. He had not just been through the Trials, but administered them.

And he’d been the one to name Geralt.

“Boy wanted to call himself Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde,” Vesemir offered with a laugh. “I told him not to be a pompous shithead and he went with Geralt of Rivia instead.”

Jaskier would keep that knowledge to himself. The world did not need to know everything about his Witcher.

Over the next few years, Jaskier met a few other Witchers; some even of other schools than the School of the Wolf. His favorite was Dragonfly from the School of the Cat, entirely because she was the proof to the fact that not ever Witcher was a man. 

The more Witchers he met, the more seemed acquainted with him ahead of time. Many looked at him with lust and Jaskier couldn’t deny the thrill up his spine. He fucked however many of them that offered. Lambert, Coën, Gascadan, even Dragonfly. Dragonfly proved very good at providing oral, though Jaskier rarely enjoyed receiving it (due to his strained relationship with the particulars of his dick more than anything else). He became friends with many of them, and the sex was great, but Jaskier never fell in love with any of them the way he’d done with Geralt.

That was fine with him. He was content with his lot in life.

Three years after starting it, Jaskier finished his epic. He ammended the original title and called it _ The Witchers. _ His reception at Oxenfurt was golden. People called him daring, controversial, brilliant.

He was a little numb for all their praise. He wondered what Geralt would think of it.

“Does anyone have objections to a few somber ballads?” Jaskier asked the quiet tavern, plucking certain notes on his lute.

“Have at it, bard,” a drunk man called.

Jaskier nodded and set into the rhythm. He tapped his foot and hummed along to himself as he began the melody on his lute.

“It’s like the murals inside my heart are slowly, slowly peeling off and I’m showing all the stains and things they wrote on the wall before. We’ve left all the blinking lights and shouting behind us now and I’ll stare at you, as you stare as you stare right back at the sky.”

A few of his maudlin patrons nodded appreciatively. One tossed a coin his way. Jaskier smiled and pulled it close with a foot.

“Gimme two damn minutes and I’ll be fine,” he continued. “Gimme two damn minutes and I’ll be fine! These hands are growing old, they’re running out of things to hold, but gimme two damn minutes and I’ll be fine.”

He would always love Geralt, at the least. Even in his absence. Jaskier didn’t mind that too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _raise your hand if you're gay for geralt being an angry jealous top, ***jaskier raises his hand***_


	6. Something I’ll Always Remember Fondly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _in here there are more of jaskier's rhymes aka my bad poetry and amazing devil lyrics, a moment where there are some truly disgusting men who intend to do non-con things before being beheaded, and dumbassery_

##  **_(6) Something I’ll Always Remember Fondly_ **

  
  


Geralt was as surprised as everyone else when Ciri wormed her way into his favor. She reminded him of a similarly persistent bard in that manner. She was young and sweet and carefree, in every way a child should be, and Geralt found himself increasingly fond of her.

“I think Grandmother still fears you’re going to take me away,” Ciri said, knocking out Geralt’s queen with her bishop.

“And do what with you?” Geralt answered, studying the board.

Ciri rolled her eyes. “Make a Witcher? Marry me?”

“Are you still on about that?” Geralt replied, moving his rook. “Are you trying to tell me something, Princess?”

Ciri laughed. She moved a knight and Geralt took it with a pawn. With a suddenly wide grin, Ciri moved her queen.

“Check!” she cried.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered.

“You’re not good at this game,” Ciri sighed.

“It’s pointlessly complicated,” Geralt insisted, scowling at what little pieces he had left. “No one in battle is going to only move in diagonals or in fucking  _ L’ _ s.”

“It’s not supposed to be realistic,” Ciri giggled.

Geralt moved his king. Ciri giggled more and moved a bishop.

“Checkmate,” she said. “Another one?”

Geralt groaned and swept a hand over his face as Ciri put all the pieces back in their proper places. “Can’t we play Gwent?” he asked from behind his hand.

“No, you cheat at Gwent,” Ciri said.

“I do not!” Geralt snapped.

Ciri stuck her tongue out and moved a knight. Geralt sighed and moved a pawn.

“I think you cheat at this game,” he muttered under his breath.

“You can’t cheat at chess,” Ciri said.

“I bet you’d figure a way,” Geralt grumbled. “What time are you supposed to go get primed up and all?”

“Probably quite a while ago,” Ciri admitted. “But no one has come to collect me yet, so then I must be free.”

“I pity you,” Geralt said.

Ciri moved a knight. “I pity your chess skills,” she said. “After all this time, you’re still dismal.”

“I feel slighted,” Geralt muttered, moving another pawn.

Ciri moved her knight. “Checkmate.”

Geralt gawked. Ciri laughed at him.

“You’re supposed to move the short ones first!” Geralt huffed, resetting the pieces for Ciri.

“You don’t have to do that,” Ciri chuckled.

A knock sounded behind them and Geralt automatically went for his sword handle, but it was only Ciri’s maid, Pheri.

“There you are!” she cried, striding into the room. “We’ve been looking for you for ages, you only have an hour left ‘til the ball!”

“Geralt, save me,” Ciri begged.

“No,” Geralt said, standing up. “You deserve your fate, you little shit.”

“Geralt, please!” Ciri cried as Pheri dragged her out of her seat. “Take me away to Kaer Morhen, anything but another ball!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Pheri berated Ciri as she pulled her from the library by her ear and Geralt moved to look out the windows, his face settling into a scowl.

There were already carriages pulling up to the castle gates despite the sun still hovering on the horizon. Ladies and Lords in finery and jewels, all to celebrate the Princess’s birthday. She was thirteen. Geralt remembered with discomfort that Pavetta had been fifteen when wed to Lord Urcheon. He’d already told Calanthe he disapproved of Omegas being married off so young, but Ciri had yet to present, so until she did, she was safe.

Geralt wasn’t sure if it really was Destiny or just her persistence, but he really did care for her. He wanted to see her an innocent, carefree child forever.

“Geralt!”

He turned at the sound of his name. Mousesack entered, striding across the room with urgency as he always did, and clapped Geralt on the shoulder.

“I heard you were visiting,” he greeted. “Looking forward to the party?”

“I hate parties,” Geralt reminded him blandly.

Mousesack laughed and pulled him from the window. “Come now,” he said, “her Majesty has arranged for the best of musicians to be here tonight! You like music.”

“Says who?” Geralt grumbled, but he followed Mousesack from the library.

“I always hear you humming something,” Mousesack insisted. “Besides, you spent twenty years traveling with a minstrel, you had to have liked his music.”

“Bard,” Geralt corrected gruffly. “And I didn’t keep him around for his music.”

Mousesack shot him a look. “What did you keep him around for?” he asked, curious and smirking.

Geralt looked away. “Never mind,” he muttered.

Mousesack shrugged and let it go.

Geralt followed him to the feast hall, where guests were already gathered and drink was already waiting. Geralt fetched a mug of ale and leaned against a pillar in the corner. Mousesack joined him, though he held a goblet of wine.

“Remember the last time we stood in this corner for one of Calanthe’s parties?” Mousesack offered.

“I got stuck with a Child of Surprise,” Geralt grunted. “Good times.”

“Don’t lie, you adore your Child of Surprise,” Mousesack countered, elbowing Geralt lightly. “You make a wonderful adoptive father.”

Geralt grunted. “Not sure how many fathers spend only a few months out of the year with their child.”

“Any father in the military,” Mousesack replied.

Geralt tipped his head and drank heavily from his mug.

“Ah, the entertainment!” Mousesack said with a grin, raising his goblet. “Finally!”

Geralt watched the group of musicians, set apart by their instruments, make their way into the feast hall. Many people cheered for the sight of them. Geralt dropped his gaze and took another drag from his mug.

Music started up across the hall. Mousesack began to chatter, as he did, and Geralt let the noise filter from one ear and pass through his mind to go back out the other ear without paying attention to it.

About an hour and a half later, Calanthe and Ciri finally entered. The musicians played a fanfare for them as Calanthe glided across the room and Ciri shuffled behind her with an uncomfortable look on her face. She caught Geralt’s gaze and wrinkled her small nose and Geralt couldn’t help but snort in amusement.

“Let the feasting begin!” Calanthe shouted.

“At last,” Geralt grumbled under his breath, heading for where the servants were bringing in piles of food.

Over the chatter, music began to play again. Geralt heard the strings of lutes and guitars, then a clear and familiar voice.

“It seems –”

Geralt stopped in his tracks, then turned to look.

“To me,” Jaskier sang, “that you – ooh…”

Mousesack caught Geralt’s shoulder and looked at the musicians with him. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Can’t sleep!” Jaskier called.

The other musicians hit a crescendo and a girl, one Geralt also knew, picked up a second verse. Jaskier’s fingers flew over the strings of his lute, and in no time at all, he was singing again.

“It seems to me that you, oh, you can’t sleep!”

“Fine,” Geralt grunted.

Mousesack squeezed and kept on.

“I held your hand as you shook in the middle of the night. Without waking you said, not yet, not yet!”

Geralt tore his gaze away and hurried off into the shadows, hoping that Jaskier wouldn’t see him.

Ciri waved to him from the high table, her face eager and a little frantic. Geralt shook his head and retreated into a dark corner, alone with his ale, but he watched Jaskier. 

He was a little older again. He had the thin beginnings of a beard and his hair was down to his shoulders, though it was pulled away from his face with braids at his temples. When he turned his head, Geralt saw he had dandelions in the braid. The lute was different, too, not the one Filavandrel gave him. That one had dandelions painted on it, as well as another flower. As the feast progressed, the musicians left the corner to dance in the middle of the room. Madeline, without her lyre, spun around on bare feet with a chorus of women and men. Jaskier’s fingers danced across his lute and his feet carried him around the room. The others, Geralt hardly looked at them; he didn’t know their names, anyway. The group worked together like they’d known each other their whole lives.

Jaskier never looked into the shadows where Geralt hid. Ciri called him a coward the first day they met, and he’d never felt more like one than that moment.

As the moon rose, the party said goodnight to Ciri. She made a show of yawning, but she ducked into Geralt’s corner as she was leaving.

“You were supposed to sit with us!” she hissed. “You abandoned me to Grandmother!”

“My apologies,” Geralt said. “I saw someone I didn’t want to see me.”

“Who?” Ciri demanded. “Who on earth is so terrible that a Witcher would be afraid of them?”

Geralt forced a smile, but patted her shoulder. “It’s none of your worry,” he told her. “Go get your beauty rest.”

Ciri huffed. “Some dad you are,” she said, but stood up on her toes to hug him.

Geralt held the back of her head for a moment, letting his chin rest on her hair, then let her pull back. Ciri yawned again, covering her mouth, and waved to him before leaving with Pheri and her guard.

Geralt watched her go, then looked back out into the center of the room to find Jaskier again.

“Play the good stuff now!” Calanthe called across the hall.

“As her Highness commands!” Jaskier answered.

Geralt leaned against the wall, telling himself he’d wait to hear Jaskier play  _ Fishmonger’s Daughter _ and then he’d go. 

Jaskier didn’t play  _ Fishmonger’s Daughter. _

After another hour, the bards took a break. Geralt watched Jaskier and his troupe retreat to their corner, and, a little bold and very hungry, took the moment to get something to eat. He still watched Jaskier. His bard slipped into the arms of a large, heavyset man and leaned on him for a moment, before pulling back and getting a kiss from him. Geralt gritted his teeth as his chest boiled in jealousy, but it was tempered by a depressed, cold knowledge that it was for the best. At least Jaskier wasn’t fucking Witchers anymore.

Geralt got a plate of meat and bread and returned to his dark corner, but a couple had taken it and there were wandering hands. Geralt huffed and found a different corner, though this one was better lit.

The musicians entered the center of the room again. Jaskier ran up to speak with Calanthe, then bowed to her and jogged back to join his troupe. He whispered to them, then they spread out. They strummed a tune and Jaskier stood in the center of them all, his fingers plucking on the same notes.

“A Witcher never smiles, or so the people say,” Jaskier said; not sang, said. “Untrue! I will tell you now, Witchers do more than slay. I once saw the White Wolf, yes, Geralt of Rivia, of course, aim the sweetest smile, at none other than his horse.”

There was laughter throughout the hall. Geralt bared his teeth first at Calanthe, and then at Jaskier. He wasn’t sure who to be angry at.

Jaskier started to dance then, skipping around the room, plucking that ditty-like tune, and people began to clap. Even Calanthe clapped. Obviously, they had heard this before while Geralt had not.

“A little background for you! Roach is the horse's name, she's quite cantankerous; her owner is to blame, but the old mare and her Witcher, they're thick as thieves. I have seen the White Wolf soft, when his horse nudges his sleeves. So I'll dare you to say,  _ ‘Witchers have no feeling,’ _ for the sight of the White Wolf, smiling wide and freely, is something I'll always remember fondly!”

With that, the poem was over. Jaskier finished the notes with a flourish and bowed to the applause. He bowed in all directions, and at the last minute, came to face Geralt.

Geralt started to move, but he saw Jaskier recognize him. Geralt ducked his gaze and started to leave. He pushed through the crowd, putting his then empty plate and mug down for a servant to collect, and slid out of the hall.

“Are you off to brood!”

Geralt stopped and turned back. Jaskier slowed from a jog to a walk, then stopped in front of him. He was smiling, wide and freely, and he had begun to sweat through his scent-blocking salve. Geralt could pick up the soft hint of lemons and lilacs and gooseberries under the sharp herbs.

“It’s been quite some time,” Jaskier said, a little out of breath. “What did you think? Three words or less,” he added, beaming a bright, sunshine grin.

Geralt let out his breath, thinning his lips, and looked away. He exhaled, then fixed Jaskier with a hard stare.

“Still not real,” he said.

Jaskier’s smile dropped a little. “Is it?”

“A good Witcher has no feeling,” Geralt insisted. 

Jaskier dropped his gaze, then his smile took on a sad tone, and he looked up again with something akin to regret.

“I learned that eventually,” he said softly.

Geralt gritted his teeth at the sorrow in Jaskier’s eyes, at knowing that he’d been the cause of that, then turned on his heel and left. He was always walking away from Jaskier. And he would walk away, for as long as he needed to. He would not let his bard,  _ his _ songbird, suffer a Witcher’s love.

He would not be unkind.

Geralt left the next morning. He lingered just long enough to say goodbye to Ciri, but he knew she sensed the disquiet in him. She insisted on another hug and Geralt indulged her. 

Roach, the third and the one Jaskier knew, knickered as Geralt greeted her in the stables. She bumped her nose into his palm and flicked her ears, blinking slowly. Geralt fed her a couple of sugar cubes and, stroking her mane, smiled as she made a happy noise and crunched the sugar from his palm.

“And you said it wasn’t real.”

Geralt turned, his lips jerking into a scowl, to see Jaskier wandering up, hands in the pockets of his coat. His cheeks were red under his facial hair, his nose pink, too. The sun had not yet burned off the chill of the night.

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asked.

“Came to see the old girl,” Jaskier said, pointing to Roach. “How is she faring? She must be getting on in years.”

Geralt hummed and turned back to run his hand down Roach’s mane. “She’s retired,” he admitted reluctantly.

Jaskier clucked his tongue and neared. He ran his hand down Roach’s face, then touched her flank, and cooed softly to her. She flicked her ears and nudged her nose into his face. Jaskier chuckled and held her muzzle to lean his forehead against her cheek.

Geralt held very still. Under Roach’s scent and the salve Jaskier wore, he could smell the start of a new season on him. It was still faint, a few weeks away. Still.

“May I meet your new mount?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt nodded, but lingered to give Roach a carrot. She knickered again and crunched it up, flicking her ears. Geralt left her with another pat, then moved down the stables to the mare he’d begun riding a few years ago.

“This is also Roach,” Geralt said, patting the white mare’s face. “Roach, this is Jaskier.”

Roach huffed and sniffed Jaskier. Jaskier giggled as her breath hit his neck and he scrunched up his shoulders and nose, covering his skin with a hand.

“Be nice,” Geralt scolded Roach gently.

Roach huffed again and butted her nose into his chest, then whinnied. Geralt huffed, too, but offered her some sugar cubes.

“Why’s she also Roach?” Jaskier asked. “Couldn’t think of a different name?”

“I always call my horse  _ Roach, _ ” Geralt said. “I’ve had four horses named Roach now.”

“You have a naming problem and a type,” Jaskier accused.

“And?” Geralt answered.

Jaskier chuckled again. He snatched the cubes from Geralt’s hand and offered them to Roach, stepping closer. Roach happily munched them out of a different hand and Geralt scowled.

“Where are you headed?” Jaskier asked.

“Anywhere,” Geralt admitted.

Jaskier glanced up and met his gaze, then looked back to Roach as she continued to eat the sugar in his hand. Geralt just looked at Jaskier.

“Anywhere sounds nice,” Jaskier said softly.

Geralt dropped his gaze as Jaskier looked up again. He cleared his throat and moved into Roach’s stall to begin tacking her up.

“What if I came along?” Jaskier asked. “Just like old times, eh?”

“I ever stop you before?” Geralt answered gruffly.

Jaskier laughed. Geralt hadn't realized how much he missed the sound of Jaskier’s laugh, even if it was polite as though aimed at a stranger.

It was fair. He and Jaskier were little better than strangers anymore.

“Will you let me ride Roach with you?” Jaskier added.

“No,” Geralt said.

Jaskier laughed again. Geralt found himself fighting a smile.

He couldn't say what failed to compel him to refuse Jaskier's presence. He never could. But they set off, Geralt walking Roach rather than riding, and Jaskier at his side, drumming his gloved fingers against his clothes in soft, muted rhythm. It was just like old times.

Geralt headed to a notice board and picked up a handful of bounties throughout Cintra. The closest, they could reach by the next morning, and the contract-giver by the following day. Geralt clicked his tongue and pulled Roach aside.

"Where are we heading?" Jaskier asked.

"To a farm, just west of here," Geralt said. "Family was driven off by something. Not far."

"Will we reach them before nightfall or will we make camp partway there?" Jaskier replied.

"We'll camp at dusk," Geralt said. "It'll then be just a few hours walk to the farm.

"Wonderful," Jaskier answered, already sliding his lute from its case.

Geralt glanced at him, then settled into his saddle and said nothing. Jaskier began to strum a tune and to hum. As they left the city, Jaskier seemed to cycle through the same set of tunes; soft, melancholy notes, then happier, louder ones, and back to the melancholy again. 

Geralt couldn’t place them. There had once been a time where he could recognize anything Jaskier hummed. Not anymore.

“What is that one?” Geralt asked.

“Hm?” Jaskier replied. “Oh, it’s nothing much. Do you want me to stop?”

His fingers fell from the lute’s strings. Geralt cast him a glance, then fixed his gaze on the road ahead.

“You never took my opinion into account before,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier laughed, and it was empty of real humor. “Well, I like to think I’ve grown up a bit since my youth. I’m not nearly as obnoxious as I once was.”

Geralt hummed. He wanted to say that Jaskier had not been genuinely obnoxious but for the odd occasion, but he didn’t know how to, so, he said nothing.

Jaskier put his lute away. He stopped humming. They walked in silence; it stretched and pulled at Geralt’s nerves the way Jaskier’s endless singing and chatting used to do. And he said nothing of it.

They stopped at noon. Geralt fed Roach, gave her a pan of water, and Jaskier sat to the side to eat his own packed rations; jerky and a sticky rice ball. Geralt had no need to eat yet. They set off again before long.

Jaskier began to hum under his breath after that. Geralt’s shoulders dropped a little at the sound. He thought perhaps Jaskier did not realize he was doing it, or perhaps he thought Geralt couldn’t hear, but either way, it was pleasant and Geralt made no mention of it.

At last, the sun set. Geralt hopped off Roach’s back and lead her by the reigns until he found a suitable camping spot. Jaskier followed Roach, his humming ceased. Geralt pretended that did not bother him. On a flat patch of grass just inside the wood and off the road, Geralt tied Roach to a tree and went to dig for a fire pit. Jaskier began setting up a tent. Geralt gathered wood, built a fire, then set off into the bush to catch something to eat. When he returned, Jaskier was strumming his lute again and singing to Roach.

“O starlight, starry night, I’m singing, and all the bells of earth be ringing, for 'tis not the land that calls you, darling, nor thoughts of the many men quarreling –”

Jaskier turned as Geralt entered the firelight and he stopped, simply smiling at him. He continued to strum his lute, but ceased singing.

Geralt nodded to him and sat down in front of the fire to skin the rabbit he’d caught. Jaskier turned his attention to his lute and resumed humming.

“What do you call it?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier shrugged. “Doesn’t have a title yet. It’s just some musing so far.”

Geralt grunted. He tossed aside the rabbit’s feet and turned it in his hands, continuing from another angle.

“You didn’t have to stop,” Geralt added.

Jaskier chuckled. He stopped the tune, then began again.

“O starry night, I’m singing, and all the bells of earth be ringing, for ‘tis not the road that calls you, darling, nor thoughts of the many men quarreling. ‘Tis the wind and sea, the lifeblood beneath your wings, all the things that pull your strings, that call you ‘neath this open sky!”

Jaskier stopped again. Geralt looked up from the rabbit, but Jaskier merely took a book from his jacket, and a quill and ink jar, and wrote down what he’d just sung. He hummed under his breath, matching the rise and pitch of his verse, and scribbled down the words by the fading sunlight and fire.

Geralt cut away the rabbit’s head, then put the knife on his knee to pull the hide away from the meat. Jaskier nodded to himself and began to strum the lute again, now simply humming. Geralt dropped the discarded hide onto the ground, then picked up the knife again and carefully gutted the carcass. He split it open from the ribs, then picked up a thick stick and carved the end into a point before setting the rabbit on it and holding it over the fire with bloody hands.

“‘Tis the heave of earth,” Jaskier began again, abrupt but sure-footed, “where none exceed your worth, all the things blessed by your birth, that call you to walk the open sky!”

“What’s that mean?” Geralt questioned.

Jaskier stopped. “Come again?”

Geralt gestured with his knife. “Heave of the earth, none exceed your worth? What does that mean?”

“Well,” Jaskier said, adjusting his seating, “it means what it says; none on earth exceed the hero of the song.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “It’s because earth and worth and birth rhyme too well, isn’t it?”

Jaskier flushed. “Shut up,” he said, bending over his songbook.

Geralt curled his lips upward, shaking his head. He rotated the rabbit on its spit slowly.

“When will that thing be done?” Jaskier asked. “I’m starving.”

“I only just put it on the fire,” Geralt answered. “Be patient.”

Jaskier huffed. He put away his songbook and lute, then laid out over the grass and stared upwards. Geralt maintained his focus on their supper. 

Several times, Jaskier drew in his breath like he wanted to say something. And each time, he exhaled again, and said nothing.

The silence stretched between them yet again, an immeasurable, uncomfortable thing; like the sticky web of some massive arachnid, woven between the two of them in impossibly close ways and just driving them apart.

But Jaskier was the poet, not Geralt.

Geralt peeled the rabbit off the spit, the heat registering vaguely through the callouses on the tips of his fingers. He dropped it onto a metal pan from his mess kit, then started carving it with a fresh knife. Jaskier pushed up and walked the short distance around the fire to sit closer. Geralt cut off the rear legs and set them aside, where Jaskier immediately picked one up and began on it. Geralt took the front legs, picking what pitiful meat there was on the animal’s bones.

“Not bad,” Jaskier mused. “Could use salt.”

“Next time I’ll be sure to use some, your Highness,” Geralt retorted.

Jaskier chuckled. He licked his fingers, his lips shining in the firelight, and Geralt fixed his gaze in the coals rather than be fixated on Jaskier’s mouth once more.

Roach brayed from her resting place. Geralt got up and refilled her water pan; she’d kicked it over, apparently. He sat down again by Jaskier and pulled more meat from the rabbit. Jaskier took something from his pack, unwrapped it, and revealed two more rice balls. He picked one up and offered it to Geralt.

Geralt glanced at it, then away. “Those are yours,” he said. “You keep them.”

“I can’t eat both tonight and they’ll spoil by tomorrow,” Jaskier answered. “Go on, take it.”

Geralt gave him another look, sighed, and took the rice. Jaskier dabbed at the juice leaking from the rabbit with his, then began to nibble on it. Geralt did the same and bit off the top. The rice was sweet and gave the rabbit’s juice a good contrast. The starch would be additional filling, as well. Geralt ate it in four bites, then picked up another hunk from the rabbit. Jaskier sighed, stretched his arms above his head, then took out a flask and had a hearty swig.

“It’ll do you no good to be hungover in the morning,” Geralt pointed out.

Jaskier laughed. “I’m amused you think it’s alcohol, old friend,” he said, offering the flask to Geralt. “It’s just juice.”

Geralt took it. He sniffed it; apple juice, perhaps, no more. He handed it back and Jaskier took another swig.

“It’s a delicacy I’ve grown fond of in Cintra,” Jaskier told him. “It’s made from green grapes, not red.”

“Ah,” Geralt answered.

“Most of it’s made into white wine,” Jaskier continued. “Some is left unfermented. It’s sweeter this way.”

Geralt hummed softly. Jaskier screwed the cap on his flask and put it away.

“I think I shall turn in,” he said. “We leave at dawn, I presume?”

Geralt only grunted to confirm. Jaskier got up, gathered up his pack and lute, and slipped into his tent.

Geralt remained by the fire. He spread out his bedroll and lay down, cocooned under a heavy blanket against the chill of the late summer night, but sleep did not find him. Jaskier, presumably, reapplied his scent-blocking salve. The harsh, herbal odor ticked at Geralt’s nose for quite some time as it dried. 

He could blame the foul scent of the salve, but it had never kept him awake before. Geralt turned onto his back, his side, back onto his back, and onto his other side again, over and over. He was restless and each new position only brought him to miss the last. 

As the night darkened, Geralt remained awake. A breeze put itself behind Jaskier’s tent and across Geralt’s face, bringing with it the harsh scent of his scent-blocking salve and a significantly sweeter odor. Geralt inhaled deeply before he even thought about it. His body grew lax, then stiffened with the need to shift and move again.

Jaskier’s season was inexplicably speeding up, the heat had to be no more than three days away. Geralt sat up abruptly, breathing hard, as his blood started to roar in his ears. He was shaken by an almost overwhelming urge to climb into the tent with Jaskier, provide him with warmth and shelter and a watchful, protective eye, and he almost did. Geralt forced himself to lay down again. Roach knickered absently nearby.

Geralt did give up on sleep soon. He got out his swords and began preparing them for the day ahead. The contract said that the farm had been attacked by a massive beast with curled horns and three-toed feet; likely a Chort. Many monsters were attracted to the smell of heat, and Chorts were one of them. Jaskier would have to stay behind. Geralt could dispatch the creature quick enough and deliver Jaskier to the nearest city with an Omega’s home where he could wait out his heat in safety. Anywhere that wasn’t near him.

Dawn came. Geralt refueled the fire, stocking wood nearby for Jaskier. He fed and prepared Roach. Jaskier emerged from his tent, covering a yawn with a hand.

“Off we go, I suppose,” Jaskier said.

“You’ll stay here,” Geralt informed him. “I’m faster by myself. When I come back, I’ll take you to Bodrog; it’s less than a day’s ride.”

“What?” Jaskier answered.

Geralt tossed him the blanket he’d slept with the night before. Jaskier caught it, but just barely; he stumbled with it.

“I can smell it on you, you must be feeling it,” Geralt said. “Wrap up in that, it’ll disguise your scent.”

“What?” Jaskier repeated, blustering. “Smell what?”

Geralt cast him a look. “Your season’s coming on fast,” he said. “You shouldn’t have left Cintra, bard.”

Jaskier drew back, his face going blank. Geralt climbed into Roach’s saddle and tapped her flanks with his heels.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised. “Keep the fire going and keep that blanket around you.”

“It’s impossible,” Jaskier stammered. “It’s not due for another three weeks!”

“I can smell it,” Geralt snapped back. “Wait here.”

He whistled and drove Roach on, leaving Jaskier at the campsite, now smelling confused and afraid.

It was a Chort. Geralt took it out in less than twenty minutes, collected the head to prove the contract fulfilled, then hauled straight back to the campsite. The fire was still going and Jaskier was huddled in the opening of his tent, wrapped in Geralt’s blanket, as he’d been told.

Geralt jumped off Roach’s back. “Bodrog is only a few hours away. I’ll let you ride Roach as well.”

“No, I need to go back to Cintra,” Jaskier told him. “I’ve never spent a season in Bodrog, I don’t know anyone there.”

“The beginning stages may hit you before we reach Cintra,” Geralt replied shortly. “Get up, I’ll take down your tent.”

Jaskier stood. Geralt started to disassemble the tent.

“I still feel it’s weeks away!” Jaskier insisted. “But it’s important that if it is coming quickly, I need to be with an Alpha I already know and trust; there’s a brothel in Cintra –”

“What?” Geralt almost snarled, jerking to look Jaskier in the face. “Don’t tell me you mean to spend your heat in a whorehouse, Jaskier!”

“I’ll spend whatever time I like in a whorehouse!” Jaskier answered sharply. “But especially my heats! What else am I going to do? Sit around and suffer? Take the fever in celibacy and misery?”

“You’ve done this before?” Geralt demanded.

“Of course!” Jaskier retorted. “Every heat I’ve had since leaving my parents house!”   


“That’s foolish and irresponsible,” Geralt snapped again. “You could get pregnant, you could be bitten –”

“Do  _ not _ tell me what I may or may not do with my body, Witcher!” Jaskier snarled back. “I am well aware of what can happen to me and I have spent over twenty years balancing the risks with the rewards!”

“I’m taking you to Bodrog,” Geralt insisted angrily.

“You will not!” Jaskier shouted. “You will take me back to Cintra!”

“I won’t take you to another Alpha for your heat, dammit!” Geralt roared.

Jaskier drew back, his eyes wide and furious. Geralt slowly realized what he’d said. Jaskier leveled a hand on him, his mouth moving, but he had no words.

“Bard,” Geralt said carefully to the ground at Jaskier's feet.

“Fuck you!” Jaskier said softly, harshly. “Fuck  _ you _ very much, Geralt of Rivia!”

He flung the blanket at Geralt, who caught it, startled. Jaskier snatched the bits of the tent from Geralt, folded them away, and stuffed them into his pack again.

“It’s safer if I take you to Bodrog!” Geralt snapped.

“Oh, shove it up your ass!” Jaskier retorted. “I can handle myself and I have been for my whole life, thank you very much!”

“If someone were to come across you –” Geralt began to warn him.

“I could throw them off!” Jaskier answered, throwing his pack onto his back. “Again, I’m perfectly capable of defending myself!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

Jaskier visibly shuddered. He shot Geralt a glare, adjusted his pack, then stormed off by himself. 

“Jaskier, come back here!” Geralt shouted after him.

“Fuck off!” Jaskier answered viciously.

Geralt snarled and kicked the earth, sending dirty and clay flying. “Fine!” he yelled. “Do it your way!”

“Have been for twenty-odd years, thank you!” Jaskier shouted back.

Geralt bared his teeth and shoved the blanket into his saddlebag. He climbed into the saddle again, then kicked his heels and urged Roach in the opposite direction. It grated on his every nerve, but Geralt let Jaskier leave and headed for the village to collect his contract.

The farmer was grateful, pleased, even. Geralt had to admit that reception of Witchers had improved since Jaskier’s meeting him. The farmer offered him a place to stay for the night, but everything in Geralt’s body insisted that something was wrong, and he knew he’d be rutting soon. He declined and got back onto the road.

“Fucking bards,” Geralt hissed under his breath. “Come on.”

Geralt took the road back to Cintra. He’d probably catch up with Jaskier soon, and could at least see him to his destination safely. Even under his scent-blocker, the fertile scent of approaching heat would attract unwelcome noses. Geralt gritted his teeth at the thought of another Alpha following the sweet smell of his bard’s closing season.

Geralt picked up Jaskier’s tracks easily. He followed them without stopping. His last mare would have stopped out of stubbornness long ago, but this Roach was much younger and had more energy. Within another hour, Geralt should have caught up with Jaskier.

Jaskier’s tracks then stopped in the middle of the road.

Geralt got down and stared at the ground in confusion. There were hoofmarks and other footprints, but Jaskier’s stopped, as if he’d been swept off his feet. Geralt scraped at the earth in the compacted mark and sniffed it. He only picked up dust and leather. He examined the other marks in the road, then found a place where someone’s toes might’ve hit the ground from a struggle.

“Fuck,” Geralt hissed.

He got back on Roach and urged her into a fast canter, scanning the side of the road for a place where someone might stop to make camp or the path ahead of him for any group that might’ve taken Jaskier. He never should’ve left his bard alone, Geralt blamed himself for anything and everything that might’ve happened to Jaskier in his absence. The quicker he found him, the less Jaskier had to suffer. After another thirty minutes, Geralt spotted lights through the trees off the road.

He left Roach tied loosely to a tree out of sight, then crept up on the camp, circling until he could approach from downwind. He picked up the scent of Jaskier’s salve, then his fear and irritation, and last, the approaching heat. Geralt armed his bow and neared the firelight slowly.

“…how long d’ya reckon the bloke’s got?” 

Male, drunk.

“I give ‘im a day, no less!”

Laughter. Geralt parted a thicket and peered through, taking stock of the camp.

There were four men, all in fine plate armor. There was no royal regalia, so they weren’t soldiers of Cintra; bandits, more likely. Jaskier was in between two of them, bound at the chest and knees with a gag in his mouth and a scowl in his eyes. Geralt’s blood boiled. 

The four Alphas were intent on their beer, but Geralt caught Jaskier’s eye from the bush. Jaskier visibly deflated. From across the clearing, Geralt could smell Jaskier's relief beginning to overtake his fear and anger.

“You bit the last one, Richard,” one of the men said across the group, “I say it’s my turn.”

“No, ‘tis mine!” another retorted. “I bested you at Gwent t’other day and you agreed to give your turn to me!”

“I did no such thing!”

“Liar!”

Geralt brought his bow up and let loose an arrow. It struck the one arguing for his turn in the ear and passed straight through him to impale his neighbor. The men screamed, particularly the one bearing Geralt’s arrow, and the two unharmed men leapt to their feet with swords drawn. Geralt jumped out of the bush and released one more arrow, shooting one of the remaining uninjured men in the face, then drew his sword and beheaded the second with the arrow in his shoulder. The last one alive caught Geralt’s blade with his sword, but stumbled when Geralt swept at his feet. Geralt cut his head off without remorse.

“Deserved worse,” he said, wiping his blade clean of blood with a spare cloth.

Jaskier made several indignant noises. Geralt put his sword away, then drew a dagger and cut the ropes off Jaskier before releasing his gag. Jaskier spat out fluff and lint, then made a disgusted face. Geralt gave him water and Jaskier drank it eagerly, then sighed.

“Thank you,” he said reluctantly. “You’re still an asshole.”

“I always have been,” Geralt admitted. “Here…”

He helped Jaskier to his feet, then wiped the blood off his face with the remains of the gag. Jaskier leaned into his touch, his eyes fluttering shut, and Geralt wanted to draw him into his arms, to hold him, to give in to the trembling that the fading adrenaline left him.

He did no such things.

Jaskier, however, leaned towards him. He touched Geralt’s chest, his hands warm even through the armor, and pressed very close until their noses were almost touching. He exhaled. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmured.

“You’re welcome,” Geralt answered a little stiffly.

For a long moment, they were just quiet. Jaskier’s hands slid up Geralt’s chest to his shoulders, holding on. Geralt found his hands taking rest on the gentle dip of Jaskier’s back. Jaskier tilted his head a little and his nose bumped against Geralt’s. Geralt swallowed. Jaskier stood on his toes a little, his eyes shutting.

And Geralt took his elbows, then pushed him back.

Jaskier let out a crushed noise.

“You may begin pre-heat before reaching Cintra,” Geralt told Jaskier. “I will… I will escort you there, but it would be better if you allowed me to take you Bodrog. It’d be best if I’m not near you when you begin to fever.”

“And why not?” Jaskier challenged.

Geralt exhaled. “You know…” he murmured. “I – I am not sure I could control myself.”

“Fuck that!” Jaskier snapped. “Fuck that! I’d rather you throw out this nonsense and take me at last!”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Geralt retorted.

Jaskier screwed up his jaw. “If you’re going to tell me that I should hate you, or fear you, after all you’ve done for me, after all I’ve done for you –!”

“You need not hate me,” Geralt cut him off reluctantly. “But… But it would be best for you to not love me, Jaskier.”

“Hasn’t stopped me in twenty-odd years,” Jaskier retorted.

Geralt shook his head. “I am not made for love, bard,” he said firmly.

“You’re wrong,” Jaskier answered. “But it won’t stop your stubbornness.”

“Jaskier, I am everything that you do not need!” Geralt snapped. “I have no title or land, no family claim to speak of, I am a mercenary that kills for a living! I cannot give you a home or children –”

“Geralt of Rivia, don’t you think that if I  _ wanted  _ children, I would have had them before I turned forty?” Jaskier countered.

“You should have had the choice to do so!” Geralt insisted.

“I clearly had the chance, but it seems you’re the only one making choices here!” Jaskier snapped. “No, you are not just stubborn, Geralt, you’re a coward!”

Geralt drew back, thinning his lips. Jaskier stood his ground.

“In all the years we’ve known each other, you’ve known exactly what I am and how I feel for you,” Jaskier accused. “Every time I looked at you, you looked away. But every time I looked at you, you were already looking at me! I know you feel something for me, Geralt, I know it! But you’re too cowardly to face up to it.”

Geralt looked away. Jaskier let out his breath.

“I will admit,” he said carefully, “that it is, perhaps, unwise to travel alone such as I am. So, I’ll allow you to escort me. But I’ll ask you do the decent thing and escort me to Cintra.”

“I will…” Geralt began, tired and melancholy, he sighed. “I will take you to Cintra.”

Jaskier nodded, then set off. Geralt cast another look at the four dead men; they’d deserved it.

“Did they throw you on the back of one of their horses?” Geralt asked, moving to untie said horses.

“The big one,” Jaskier agreed. “Nice shot, by the way.”

Geralt grunted.

“Clearly, I wasn’t their first victim,” Jaskier added. “You did the world a favor.”

Geralt turned back to see Jaskier emptying the dead men’s pockets. He sighed. Jaskier looked up and gave him an affronted expression.

“I can hardly let it go to waste, can I?” he said. 

“No,” Geralt answered.

Jaskier nodded and carried on. Geralt put out the fire.

“Where’s Roach?” Jaskier said. 

“She’s not far,” Geralt assured him.

Jaskier put his pack on his back again and shouldered his lute case. Geralt nodded to him and began to walk.

“Is it odd that I feel nothing?” Jaskier added.

“Hm?” Geralt replied.

“I was minutes away from being raped and potentially bonded against my will,” Jaskier observed.

Geralt growled.

“And I feel fine,” Jaskier finished. 

“You weren’t hurt,” Geralt muttered. “You are fine.”

Jaskier let out his breath. He laughed softly. “I wasn’t very afraid to begin with,” he admitted. “I knew you’d come charging to my rescue.”

Geralt glanced at him, then away. Of course.

“It seems a cruel twist of fate that you would come charging to my rescue as you did,” Jaskier said, “yet we remain strictly platonic.”

Geralt grunted. “It’s for the best,” he said.

Jaskier laughed again, this time mockingly. Geralt didn’t answer that.

They reached Roach. Geralt climbed into her saddle, then extended a hand to Jaskier.

“We can ride through the night,” he offered. “That’s faster.”

Jaskier let out another humorless laugh. He took Geralt’s arm and climbed into the saddle with him.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were too eager to get rid of me,” Jaskier said, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist to hold onto the saddle horn.

Geralt grunted again. Jaskier chuckled sardonically.

“You’re afraid you’ll rut if I start pre-heat around you,” he finally guessed.

Geralt steered Roach back onto the road without a word. 

“Aren’t you?” Jaskier insisted.

“No,” Geralt said. 

“Don’t lie,” Jaskier demanded. “You owe me that much, at least.”

Geralt let out his breath, then nodded once. “I already am rutting,” he admitted.

Jaskier leaned back. Geralt smacked his wrist and Jaskier sat forward, holding on. Geralt whistled, digging his heels in, and Roach broke into a fast trot.

Jaskier settled his head near the back of Geralt’s neck. Geralt felt him inhaling.

“I can’t smell it,” Jaskier mumbled.

“What?” Geralt replied.

“Your rut,” Jaskier said. “I can’t smell it. That’s not fair, you can smell me.”

Geralt had no answer to that, so he said nothing. Jaskier sighed behind him and said nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _gotcha_


	7. If I'm Good Will You Come Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i see your notes from the last chapter and would like to offer this_

##  **_(7) If I’m Good Will You Come Back_ **

  
  


Jaskier fell asleep behind Geralt as the sun went down. Geralt pushed Roach through the night and at dawn, they reached the gates. Geralt slowed and showed his face to the guards to be let in, and inside, Geralt went straight for the stables to put Roach up for a well-deserved rest.

Jaskier woke with a petulant groan when Geralt shook him. He slid off Roach’s back and stretched, his face distorted. He smelled too sweet and the salve had faded long ago. 

“Where is wherever you’re going?” Geralt asked, quickly and efficiently stripping Roach of her gear.

“The Private Huntress,” Jaskier said, yawning. “Fuck, my ass is already sore.”

Geralt clenched his jaw and didn’t think too hard about that. He led Roach to the water trough, then called for a stableboy to see she was cared for. The boy stared with wide eyes at Jaskier for much too long for Geralt’s liking. With a growl, Geralt dragged Jaskier from the stables.

“Be gentle with me, Witcher!” Jaskier whined. “I’m a delicate flower about to bloom!”

“You’re blooming, alright,” Geralt muttered. “Which way?”

“To the north,” Jaskier said. “You don’t have to walk me there.”

Geralt gave him a hard look and ignored that. He kept a firm grip on Jaskier’s shoulder, who,  _ unfortunately, _ did not protest. In fifteen minutes, they were walking into the Private Huntress.

Geralt immediately smelled sex on every surface as they walked in. He growled again and Jaskier hit him in the chest before marching up to a front desk.

“Niffe, darling,” Jaskier greeted the old madame, “please tell me Dredirt is free?”

Niffe nodded and pulled up an account book. Jaskier sighed in clear relief and propped himself up on her desk, his ass sticking out significantly. Geralt gritted his teeth. Niffe wrote something down, then rang a bell.

“Have you got your own collar?” she asked tonelessly.

“Of course,” Jaskier answered.

“And should you beget a child, Dredirt is not responsible for it in any way,” Niffe added.

Geralt almost growled again. Jaskier only waved his hand.

“Not a concern, dear,” he said. 

Niffe hummed. She put a cigar between her lips and lit it, then rang the bell again. Jaskier drummed his fingers on the desk, his back curved as he looked up a stairwell. Geralt glared up it, waiting as well.

“Sign here,” Niffe said to Jaskier.

Geralt watched Jaskier sign whatever it was, and as he was handing it back, a man exited the stairs Jaskier had been watching. He inhaled visibly, nostrils flaring, and Geralt’s hands balled into fists.

Jaskier started towards him, then stopped, looking back at Geralt. Geralt clenched his jaw, then turned to go. Jaskier caught up with him, grabbing his arms, and he stopped.

“It’s not too late,” Jaskier said softly.

“Yes, it is,” Geralt murmured. “It always was.”

Jaskier exhaled. He nodded, then patted Geralt’s shoulder.

“I hate to say this,” he continued, “but… After this? I think it would be best to part ways. For good.”

Geralt gave a nod. “Sensible,” he agreed.

Jaskier sighed, looking away. “No, it’s not, and you’re still a fool,” he accused, smiling though it was clearly forced. “But if you’ll insist on your ways, then so be it. I thought I could be your friend and love you from afar, but knowing that you –”

He sighed and Geralt felt shame, though he could not give in. Jaskier shook his head.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he said.

Geralt grunted, nodding once. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier murmured. “I wish you wouldn’t push me away, but… I won’t push you. Or myself.”

“It’s not your fault,” Geralt told him. “You… You have no choice in who you care for.”

Jaskier nodded, avoiding Geralt’s eyes for once. Geralt cleared his throat, then pulled away. Jaskier let him go.

Geralt left while Jaskier entered Dredirt’s welcoming embrace. Outside, Geralt took in a deep breath. He waited a minute, then went back in. Niffe looked up.

“If you’ve changed your mind and want to have him yourself,” she started to say.

“How much does he owe you?” Geralt cut her off.

Niffe shrugged. “His season’s seven days, far as I remember. Be seven ‘unard gold, then.”

Geralt took out his coin purse and she offered him the scale to use. He paid for Jaskier’s stay with all of what he’d gotten for the Chort and much of his savings.

As he left, Niffe called him back.

“If you come back, I can only refund you half,” she said with a sneer.

Geralt only left.

*

“Sweetheart, what troubles you?” Dredirt asked as he led Jaskier upstairs.

“Oh, the usual,” Jaskier sighed. “The Alpha that I left downstairs. It’s obvious, right?”

“Honestly, yes,” Dredirt agreed. “Come, I’ll make you forget him.”

Jaskier smiled as Dredirt guided him into his room. “Many have tried,” he said. “Many have failed.”

“I’ll make you forget him for a few days,” Dredirt offered, his voice a gentle purr in his chest.

Jaskier still smiled. Dredirt pulled him into a kiss and Jaskier let his need to bend give in. Dredirt was familiar and sweet and gentle. Jaskier was content to spend the next week blissful from his knot, content to ignore his feelings for Geralt, and content to put off the fact that he’d, at last, said his final goodbye to his Witcher for later.

Dredirt led him to the bed and Jaskier went willingly. It was easy to focus on the then and now and not what he could have had.

*

Geralt’s rut quickly boiled into the full thing even after leaving Jaskier’s heat-scent behind. He entered a tavern and was chased out by the owner. So he fled to the less savory district, spoiling for a fight or a fuck; he wasn’t sure which, or if he even cared.

Eventually, he entered a brothel. The madame looked at him derisively.

“It’s extra for rut and you still only get an hour,” she said.

“Fine,” Geralt agreed.

She hummed under her breath and rang a bell. Three women entered the room, eyeing Geralt seductively.

“Have you got any males?” Geralt asked wearily.

The madame raised an eyebrow. “One. He’s extra.”

“Fine,” Geralt agreed again.

“Lerdis!” the madame called. “In here!”

The prostitutes dispersed. A young man, dark-skinned, short, thin, entered the room and smiled at Geralt.

“Two hundred,” the madame told Geralt.

That used up almost the rest of his coin. Lerdis slid his hands up Geralt’s arms and pulled him away with a smile.

Geralt followed him into a room and as soon as the door was shut, pinned him against it and kissed him. Lerdis moaned under him, hooking a knee at his hip, but his taste was all wrong. Geralt went to his neck, kissing him there, as Lerdis worked a hand into his trousers. Lerdis continued to moan, practiced and perfect, and everything was  _ wrong. _

With a growl, Geralt shoved off him. Lerdis fell back against the door, clinging to it suddenly, and Geralt took in a deep breath as he stepped away from him.

“Have I displeased you?” Lerdis asked hesitantly.

“Yes and no,” Geralt growled.

Rut made him angry. The fact that he wasn’t with Jaskier made him angry. He let out a snarl as he slammed his fist into the wall. Lerdis suddenly smelled of fear and he ripped the door open and fled. Geralt drew back, grimacing at his split knuckles and the dent in the wall. The madame came charging in, holding a crossbow, and Geralt held up his hands.

“Out!” she snarled. “I have no violence here, rutter, out!”

“Tell the boy I’m sorry,” Geralt offered. “You can keep the money.”

“The hell I will,” she snapped. “Go on!”

Geralt nodded, though his lips were soured. It had been a mistake to try fucking someone else. He left, rut still pushing him to fight or fuck. On the streets, people avoided him more than they usually would. Geralt almost got back on Roach and left the city.

Or he could quit being a coward.

*

Jaskier wasn’t quite in heat yet, so to start, he let Dredirt finger his ass open and then rode him that way. It was excellent, and with Dredirt moaning under him, Jaskier felt powerful and pleasurable and  _ good. _

Dredirt let him set the pace, allowed him to do as he wished, and didn’t question him. He was very different from what Geralt would be, Jaskier guessed. Geralt wouldn’t allow him to ride his cock all morning just for the sensation of having it inside him, he’d take charge long before then, take what he wanted, what they both needed. The thought made Jaskier’s insides warm up and his toes curl. He’d caught glimpses over the years of Geralt’s cock, it had to be magnificent, and the bulge in his trousers was truly glorious.

Jaskier had to focus on the cock presently filling him, but he kept drifting back to Geralt. His rough hands, his voice, his strength. The ease at which he had dispatched four men, the competency he had with his blade and his bow. It was chilling and thrilling. And it didn’t help Jaskier at all.

“Enjoying yourself, sweet thing?” Dredirt asked lowly.

“Mm-hmm,” Jaskier answered, weary and consumed.

Dredirt’s hands swept over his waist, over his hips, his thighs, and he pressed kisses to Jaskier’s breast, his thumbs lifting to trace the scars under Jaskier’s chest as his mouth settled on a nipple. Jaskier let him, even though he had little sensation in his nipples, it was still thrilling to see Dredirt’s lips wet and red.

“Good Omega,” Dredirt purred, kissing his chest. “Such a good Omega for Daddy.”

Jaskier sighed, tipping his head up. Dredirt hooked a finger in his collar, blocking his scent gland from being bitten, and pulled him closer to kiss along his throat. Jaskier happily let him, lost in the bliss of sex.

*

“Fuck,” Geralt growled.

He headed for the Private Huntress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _you're welcome_


	8. None Would Raise to You A Hand Nor Thumb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _here you go_

##  **_(8) None Would Raise to You A Hand Nor Thumb_ **

  
  


Geralt threw open the door to the Private Huntress and stormed inside, startling some patron at the counter into staggering back. Niffe smiled around her cigar as he strode up to the desk.

“Where is he?” Geralt demanded.

“Third floor, take a left, it’ll be the last door on the right,” Niffe offered. “Half refund, Master Witcher.”

Geralt grunted and headed up the stairs. The other patron let out a relieved breath.

On the third floor, Geralt took the left-hand hallway and followed it. Everything was drowned in the smell of lust and sex, too many people’s scents overlapping in too many places, it made his head hurt and gave him the urge to snarl and throw open a window, but he could still pick up Jaskier’s scent; sweetened by oncoming heat, lilacs, gooseberries, gentle lemon. Geralt banged a fist on the last door on the right, then tried the handle and threw it open when he found it unlocked.

“Hey!”

Jaskier was straddling the lap of the Alpha sex worker, naked and flushed, a strip of leather buckled around his neck. Geralt growled as he entered and Jaskier immediately lifted off the other Alpha’s cock, falling back onto the bed with his legs open and his lips parting. Geralt tamped down a flash of pride and satisfaction and focused a glare at the other Alpha.

“Get out,” he snarled.

The Alpha sex worker glanced at Jaskier, who merely smiled and waved a hand. He got up, put on a shirt, and left the room. Geralt slammed the door after him. Jaskier continued to smirk as he reclined on the bed, a haze of lust coloring his cheeks and softening his gaze.

“What are you doing, Geralt?” he asked.

Geralt strode up to him, then dropped to a knee in front of him and bowed his head. Jaskier sat up on his elbows, the haze and smirk gone.

“You were right,” Geralt admitted to the floor. “I am a coward. And a stubborn fool. And I didn’t allow you to make your own choice. And I’m sorry.”

“Hmph,” Jaskier answered. “It’s about time. I thought you really were going to abandon me for good this time.”

Geralt looked up, but lost the words in his throat as his gaze fixed on Jaskier’s naked state. He’d never truly _seen_ Jaskier naked before, he’d always looked away or ensured Jaskier had privacy. Now, he saw two very distinct, long scars across Jaskier’s chest and a third down his belly. Geralt rumbled and stood up to touch, to set his hands on Jaskier’s waist, to feel the scars as if he could soften them with his thumbs. Jaskier let out a startled laugh but let Geralt touch him.

“Who did this to you?” Geralt demanded. “I’ll find them, I’ll –”

“Those saved my life, thank you very much!” Jaskier cut him off. “It was a mage slash physician from Aretuza, he removed my breasts so I didn’t have to go around binding them flat all the time and tied up my womb to keep me childless.”

Geralt reared back, blinking. “You – What?”

"I told you I didn't want children!" Jaskier replied. "Made bloody sure of it fifteen years ago!"

"But – Wait, _breasts?_ " Geralt repeated in confusion.

Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “Geralt, look between my legs.”

Geralt looked down and his eyebrows shot up. Jaskier inexplicably lacked a penis and testicles.

“Triss, that is to say, the woman who introduced me to the mage, and I call ourselves transgender,” Jaskier said. “Trans meaning transformed, gender meaning gender.”

“I see,” Geralt said numbly, blinking slowly.

“Did you really have no idea?” Jaskier laughed.

“None,” Geralt admitted.

He set his hands on Jaskier’s waist instead and stuck his nose between his legs, pressing against the thatch of curly hair there, and Jaskier let out a soft gasp as Geralt inhaled him. His slick smelled primarily of sugar, the gooseberries, and it stroked Geralt’s rut and made him rumble happily.

Someone banged on the door. Geralt shot up, gathering Jaskier into a tight embrace, and Jaskier squeaked even as the person outside knocked forcefully again.

“We’re not an inn!” Niffe shouted.

“We should go,” Jaskier said.

Geralt rumbled again. He stood up, then went about getting Jaskier’s clothes. Jaskier got dressed quickly, covering the collar on his neck with his clothes, and last, brushed his fingers through his hair to neaten it. Geralt impulsively grabbed him by the waist and stuck his face into his neck to nuzzle him. Jaskier laughed and hugged him tightly.

“If you’re gonna fuck each other an’ not one’a my whores, be out wit’ you!” Niffe shouted from outside.

“Alright, alright!” Jaskier called after her.

Geralt growled softly and jerked off a glove with his teeth, then rubbed his wrist over Jaskier’s face. Jaskier leaned into it, his eyes shutting, and he smiled.

“Come on, love,” Jaskier murmured. 

“I have quarters in the castle,” Geralt told him. “I don’t have the makings for a nest, but –”

“It’ll be perfect,” Jaskier cut him off, touching his face.

Geralt nodded, swallowing nervously. He let Jaskier take his ungloved hand, curling their fingers together, and lead him out.

Niffe offered Geralt a sack of coins, her lips smirking around her cigar. “Half refund,” she said.

“You fool, you shouldn’t’ve paid for me!” Jaskier gasped, then rolled his eyes and with a scoff, pulled Geralt to the stairs. “Providing for me even while you were insisting you couldn’t be mine,” he fussed. “Fool of an Alpha.”

Geralt grunted. Jaskier cast him a wholly exasperated but immeasurably _fond_ look.

The Alpha sex worker waved to them in the front room and Geralt bared his teeth in a snarl, but Jaskier hardly took notice. Geralt stopped Jaskier with a hand on his shoulder and, ignoring his initial frown, swept him up to prop on his shoulder.

“Geralt!” Jaskier gasped. “You primate!”

Geralt smacked his ass. “You’re mine,” he growled.

Jaskier laughed. Geralt carried him out of the brothel.

“Are you going to carry me all the way to the palace?” Jaskier asked.

“Yes,” Geralt said.

“Primitive,” Jaskier sniggered.

“As if you don’t enjoy it,” Geralt countered.

“I didn’t say that!” Jaskier insisted.

“I can smell it,” Geralt answered, sneering to himself.

Jaskier shut up after that.

Geralt took the back entrance into the castle and expedited the trip. He kept Jaskier on his shoulder the whole way, a hand curled tightly around his thigh. Though there were guards, they got out of Geralt’s way with one irritable look.

Geralt unlocked his quarters and dropped Jaskier onto his feet inside before turning back to lock it again. When he turned back, Jaskier’s doublet hit him in the face.

“This is exactly how I imagined you would live,” Jaskier announced. “Nothing but the bare needs. Where’s the bedroom?”

Geralt yanked the doublet off his face, threw it aside, and closed the gap Jaskier had put between them in two steps. He scooped Jaskier off his feet again, this time throwing him into a cradle, and Jaskier grabbed him around the neck with a smug laugh.

“If you think you can act like a brat now that you’re mine, you’re sorely mistaken,” Geralt told him firmly.

“Oh, but Geralt!” Jaskier whined, touching his face with a soft hand as his lips curled in a pout. “You can’t ask me to stop being an integral part of me!”

Geralt kicked open his bedroom door, then kicked it shut again. “Let me rephrase it,” he said. “If you think you can act like a brat and not have _consequences,_ you’re sorely mistaken.”

He tossed Jaskier onto the bed. Jaskier hit it, bounced, and grinned up at him. Geralt tugged his boots off for him, then started yanking his trousers down, and Jaskier lifted his hips to allow the movement. Jaskier yanked off his undershirt before Geralt could get to it, then rolled onto his back to shove off his smallclothes. Geralt grabbed him by the knees and spread them apart, then set his nose in Jaskier’s pubic hair and inhaled deeply again. Jaskier shuddered under him, a moan leaving his lips, and Geralt let go of his knee to comb his fingers through his curls, rumbling deep in his chest with satisfaction as a finger slipped between the lips of Jaskier’s anatomy and slid right into thick wetness.

“Fuck, okay,” Jaskier sighed. “Here’s the deal, Geralt, I have an asshole, a front hole, and a prick, and you can do whatever you want to any of them, but I’m really craving a knot up my cunt now.”

“Which hole is your cunt?” Geralt asked, bemused.

“Either,” Jaskier said, waving his hand. “No, it’s the front one, at least, right now that’s the one that matters.”

Geralt nodded. He found Jaskier’s perineum with his thumb, then used two fingers to spread his folds open and look past the hair. His prick, as he’d said, stood out between his folds and the end of it poked out of its hood, some two or three inches long and half an inch across. Geralt had seen smaller dicks in his life. His front hole was already wet and open. Geralt let out a low growl and leaned in close, pressing his face between Jaskier’s legs, to inhale deeply and sort out the scents there. Jaskier groaned, grabbing onto Geralt’s hair. 

Geralt could smell the Alpha sex worker all over Jaskier, but not his seed and his scent wasn't mixed with Jaskier's slick. Still, he growled again and shot to his feet, unlacing his britches as quickly as he could. Jaskier’s hand dropped to the bed and he raised his eyebrows at Geralt. Geralt leaned over him, widening his stance, and grabbed onto Jaskier’s wrists to pin them over his head.

“I am very happy with this program,” Jaskier announced.

“Good,” Geralt growled.

He pulled his dick out, then spat into his palm and started to jack himself. Jaskier picked his head up to look between them and let out a sharp gasp.

“That is huge,” he murmured. “Fuck, Geralt, I can’t wait to have that beast inside me, gods, it’s beautiful.”

“I’ll be careful with you,” Geralt promised awkwardly. “It is… often too large for anyone to take the whole of it.”

“I am taking that thing to the knot and living on it!” Jaskier challenged. “What are you doing now?”

Geralt rumbled and tucked his face into Jaskier’s neck, nuzzling over his skin and the leather alike. “You smell like the other man,” he said. “Needs to change.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Jaskier answered. “Please continue, Geralt, I’m with you on this.”

Geralt rumbled again and kissed Jaskier’s jaw, tasting the salt of his skin. He realized that he had not yet kissed Jaskier’s mouth and lifted his head to remedy that. Jaskier gasped under his lips, but arched into the kiss and met Geralt with enthusiasm. His mouth was warm and tasted like wine, for some reason. It was thrilling to finally kiss him after so many years of wanting. Jaskier moaned for him and Geralt growled.

Geralt used the pre-cum dripping from his crown to get his cock wetter and sped up his hand. Jaskier hooked a leg over his waist then and pulled him close; Geralt growled again and bit at his lower lip and Jaskier moaned under him.

Geralt’s orgasm came as a blow to the gut. He broke the kiss to pant for air, his seed splattering across Jaskier’s torso, and Jaskier gasped as though satisfied himself. Geralt let go of his cock to spread his hand through the mess, smearing it over Jaskier’s transformation scars then down between his legs, cupping his cock. Jaskier moaned and pushed into his hand, his flesh hot and pulsing, and Geralt slid a finger, wet with jizz, inside his cunt.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier said, “right in the entrance, just past two knuckles in, curl your finger up –”

Geralt did as he was told; Jaskier was impossibly soft inside, the roof of his entrance ribbed in texture from spongy places to the hard plate where the bone was close to the skin. Jaskier sighed and his cunt clenched down, spasming around Geralt’s finger. Geralt quickly added two others, pressing harder and circling his fingers. Jaskier moaned, twisting on the bed. Geralt growled and put his head in Jaskier’s neck, tucking close to the leather covering his scent gland and breathing in his scent under the collar’s.

“It’s starting,” Jaskier murmured even as Geralt rumbled, his rut finally satisfied. “Gods, dammit, Geralt, get that thing off my neck.”

Geralt drew back, suddenly frightened. “I might bite you –”

“No _might_ about it!” Jaskier answered quickly, his eyes flashing and temper curling his scent. “If you _don’t_ bite me, I’ll walk out of here and sit on every cock from here to Rivia!”

Geralt growled and used his other hand to stroke Jaskier’s cock while pressing up against the spot he’d been instructed to seek out. Jaskier gasped brokenly, collapsing against the bed, and his scent turned sugar sweet again rapidly.

“That’s not fair!” he panted. “I _want_ you to bite me, Geralt.”

“I want to bite you, as well,” Geralt admitted. “But it’s –”

“No!” Jaskier snapped, lifting his head again; he grabbed the front of Geralt’s armor, catching his medallion, and tugged him close. “No buts,” he said quietly, panting for breath still. “I’m yours now. You do it properly.”

Geralt swallowed, his throat dry. He tucked his forehead against Jaskier’s, then removed the hand from his cock and instead, took Jaskier’s hand to touch under his jaw. He let Jaskier find his pulse and held his fingers there.

His heart, stilled unnaturally by his mutations, was racing. Jaskier pressed two fingers to Geralt's pulse, his eyes softening.

“I fear I am not enough for you,” Geralt murmured softly. “I fear I will drag you into the life of an outcast with me. One day, you might regret tying yourself to me.”

“I’d never,” Jaskier swore.

“But you could choose better –” Geralt said hastily.

Jaskier touched Geralt’s cheek with his other hand. “Let me choose you,” he asked. “I want only you, have for more than twenty years now. I am not going to change my mind.”

Geralt turned his face into Jaskier’s palm, then kissed it. Jaskier brushed hair from Geralt’s brow, then cupped the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss.

Geralt found the buckle on Jaskier’s neck and slid it free. Jaskier inhaled against Geralt’s lips, his mouth splitting into a smile. He caught Geralt’s hair with both hands and kissed him with vigor renewed, a fire to it, pleasure and satisfaction in his scent. Geralt grabbed the bed with his free hand, bracing himself, and surrendered to Jaskier’s mouth. 

He was a damn good kisser.

“Forgive me,” Jaskier said against Geralt’s mouth, in breaths stolen between their lips, “but if your cock isn’t inside me in the next five _seconds_ –”

Geralt growled and pulled his fingers free of Jaskier’s cunt, grabbing his knee instead. He brought their hips together, blindly humping Jaskier, until Jaskier laughed at him and threw his legs over Geralt’s back, knocking away his hand. Geralt grabbed his shaft just under the head and steadied it, panting against Jaskier’s mouth, and fit the tip of his cock against Jaskier’s trembling cunt.

“Fuck,” Jaskier gasped as Geralt began to push in.

“Slower –?” Geralt asked.

“No!” Jaskier said quickly. “Give it to me!”

Geralt let out another growl and gripped lower on his shaft. He let their noses brush together, their lips touch, and gave Jaskier the tip gently. Jaskier grabbed his pauldrons, holding him close, but Geralt kept the pace slow.

“Geralt!” Jaskier whined.

“Patience, bard,” Geralt answered softly.

“I was patient for twenty-something years!” Jaskier retorted.

Geralt brought their lips together again, resisting Jaskier’s heels digging into the small of his back. The head of his cock slid past Jaskier’s entrance, at last, his body’s natural suction drawing him in another inch, and Jaskier immediately tightened around him with a gasp. Geralt let out a broken moan, grabbing onto the bed with both hands, as Jaskier’s cunt drew him in.

“C’mon,” Jaskier encouraged him, “give me that glorious beast, Geralt, fill me with it.”

“I will give it to you on _my_ time,” Geralt growled.

“Geralt!” Jaskier whined again.

Geralt kissed him, just to shut him up. Jaskier whimpered, his cunt tightening, and Geralt gave him another excruciatingly slow inch. 

“Don’t be cruel,” Jaskier asked, his tone getting weak.

“What’s the matter, little songbird?” Geralt replied with a wicked grin. “Have you succumbed to begging?”

“If that will get you to move faster, then, dammit, yes!” Jaskier cried out, smacking Geralt’s pauldrons. “Please! Please, Alpha?”

Jaskier’s desperate voice calling him _Alpha_ definitely hit a few good spots in Geralt’s brain. He rumbled and nuzzled Jaskier’s nose against his again, but did not pick up his pace in filling Jaskier’s cunt. He scooped up a bit more of his spent seed on Jaskier’s belly and, rather, drew his cock back to just the tip to spread it along his shaft.

Jaskier let out a heartbroken noise.

“Alpha,” Jaskier whined, “I won’t be a brat anymore, I promise, I’ll be good, please, don’t tease me?”

Geralt hushed him with another kiss, settling his stance to sink his cock back into Jaskier’s cunt. Jaskier whimpered under him and Geralt swallowed his lovely noises. He lifted a hand from the bed and got it wet from his cum on Jaskier’s belly, then spread it over Jaskier’s cock and stroked him gently. Jaskier gasped, then moaned, and Geralt waited for the walls of his cunt to flutter as his cock twitched under his palm to push deeper in.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whimpered. “Fuck, Geralt, you’re so massive; feel so, so good…”

“There,” Geralt murmured. “Now you’re being a good boy, bard.”

Jaskier let out a broken moan. Geralt kissed the corner of his lips, then took his lips down his neck to kiss and nuzzle his scent gland. It was flush with blood and thrumming, close to the skin and tantalizingly soft. Geralt licked him and groaned at the taste. Jaskier moaned again and his cunt fluttered around Geralt’s cock.

“I wanna come on your massive cock, Geralt,” Jaskier begged. “I want to feel your teeth in my neck, want you to mark me, claim me, you possess all I am now, Geralt, you always have, please –”

“In good time,” Geralt said against his neck. “Let’s enjoy our first time, songbird, not rush it.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier only repeated. “You say more to me now than you ever had in a whole day.”

“Are you complaining?” Geralt answered.

“Gods, no!” Jaskier insisted.

Geralt chuckled and pressed another kiss to Jaskier’s scent gland. Jaskier shuddered, moaned, and his cunt fluttered again, welcoming him, and Geralt pressed in another inch. He was already meeting resistance and he had but half of his shaft inside Jaskier’s willing body.

“I don’t know if I want you to knot me and then bite me or make me come as quickly as possible and bite me right away,” Jaskier admitted. “I want to feel you –”

His hand fell to touch Geralt’s breast, near his heart. Geralt nuzzled under his jaw and rumbled to him softly.

“I want to feel you in my heart,” Jaskier murmured. “Where you belong.”

"Whatever you choose," Geralt said impulsively. "I will respect that."

Jaskier let out a musical laugh. "Oh, gods, that is so fucking sexy, Geralt. You're going to fill my head, not just my body."

"So be it," Geralt agreed.

"I want to feel you," Jaskier insisted. "Make me come, bite me now, right now, I've waited long enough for you, Geralt."

Geralt let out a low rumble and tucked into Jaskier's neck to begin sucking on his scent gland Then, he fit two fingers over Jaskier's cock and began massaging it like he would a clit, assuming the concept was the same whatever Jaskier called his anatomy. Jaskier moaned again, his cunt fluttered, and Geralt drew his dick back to put pressure on the spot Jaskier had pointed out.

"Fuck, yes!" Jaskier gasped. "Gods, my love, move – move a little, back and forth right there –”

Geralt adjusted himself and began fucking into that spot. Jaskier keened.

"Yes!" he cried. "Geralt, you have no idea how good you feel, your cock, that thick, massive _cock,_ gods, I love it so much, you're never getting me off of it! Use your thumb, stroke up over me –”

"Bossy," Geralt commented, but he shifted his hand to rub over and across Jaskier's cock.

"Fuck, shut up and keep doing that!" Jaskier gasped. "Don't stop, don't you dare stop, speed up! Fuck me, fuck me harder, Daddy, I can take it, I want it, more!"

"Daddy?" Geralt repeated, now amused. "Is that what you're going to call me?"

"Fuck!" Jaskier said again, but this time it was not in pleasure. "I'm sorry, I don't have to, it just slipped out –”

"Let it slip out again," Geralt encouraged. "Are you going to come on your Daddy's cock?"

"F–fuck!" Jaskier once again gasped. "Yes! Fuck!"

His cunt suddenly began spasming, a familiar sensation. Geralt bared his teeth and sank them into Jaskier's scent gland at once. Jaskier screamed, cinching down around Geralt's cock.

It was followed by an explosion of feelings. Overwhelming longing, need, and _want_ claimed Geralt's heartbeat. He felt a surge in his blood, rut and lust and _Jaskier_ all at once. His head spun. He shoved his cock as deep into Jaskier as it would go and he growled into his scent gland as it pulsed under his teeth, rich pheromones pouring into his mouth.

Jaskier grabbed Geralt's face and neck, holding him there. He sobbed, but before Geralt could worry, a wave of relief nearly knocked him back. Jaskier was relieved. And now Geralt could feel it through their bond.

That spurred relief in him. Gods, did he love his bard.

Geralt unclamped his teeth and licked over the mark, wiping away blood and oil from the gland. Jaskier drew in a ragged breath. He touched Geralt's cheek, and Geralt knew what he wanted, so he pushed up and sealed their mouths together in a demanding kiss. Jaskier let out a moan. Geralt touched his cock again and Jaskier gasped as his cunt cinched tight again.

"Too soon," Jaskier said against Geralt's lips. "I need a minute."

"Can you come again that quickly?" Geralt asked.

Jaskier grinned, feral and delighted. "There is one benefit to having this body instead of that of a typically-born man."

"Good," Geralt answered, then shut him up with another kiss.

Jaskier purred under him. Geralt felt it in his own chest, the haze of satisfaction and desire. His cock was throbbing, his knot half full already, and Jaskier tightened around him.

"Put all of it in me," he demanded. "I want your knot."

"Let's take things carefully," Geralt said.

"Fuck that!" Jaskier replied with another truly feral laugh. "I want your knot, Alpha, and I want it now!"

Geralt growled. He nipped at Jaskier's lower lip, bumped their noses together, and flexed his hips to sink just a little bit deeper. He worried about how tight Jaskier already was, with more than a few inches of Geralt's shaft to go before he was buried to the root, but the combination of rut and Jaskier's lust filling their brand-new bond as well as the delicious scent of heat in the air made him more than okay to push the limit. Geralt snapped his hips, shoving his cock deeper roughly, and Jaskier moaned in delight.

"Yes," he sighed, "give me all of it, Geralt, every delicious, succulent inch. Fuck me hard, I know you want to, I can feel it, fuck me with that beast of a cock, make me feel it for days after."

Geralt couldn't help but growl again. He _pushed,_ and suddenly his near-ready knot sank completely into Jaskier's warm body.

"Gods, yes!" Jaskier gasped. "Fuck, Geralt, you feel so wonderful, now fuck me, be rough with me, use that beast and make me come again!"

"You want it rough?" Geralt answered in a rumble.

"Yes!" Jaskier demanded. "Am I babbling for my health, Geralt, no! _Fuck_ me!"

Geralt let out another growl and started to snap his hips. Jaskier shouted, keening, and Geralt bit down on his shoulder as he set his pace _brutal_ right away. Jaskier's hands scrambled for purchase on his pauldrons, his heels dug into the small of Geralt's back, and he shouted every time Geralt slammed his hips flush against him.

"Yes, fuck, just like that!" he cried out. "Daddy, you feel amazing, your cock is perfect, I'm in love – There!"

"Get a hand on your dick," Geralt told him sharply. "You're going to come again."

"Yes, I want that!" Jaskier whined, even as he scrambled to get a hand between them. "Fuck, fuck, don't slow down, don't you dare – Daddy, you feel so fucking good –!"

" _You_ feel fucking good," Geralt retorted. "Fucking _tight,_ bard, you feel like a fucking virgin –”

"I love your voice, Daddy," Jaskier keened.

"You want me to talk?" Geralt gritted out. "Is that getting your dick hard, songbird? You like the sound of your Daddy's voice?"

"Fuck, yes," Jaskier whimpered. "Daddy, I'm close – I love you, Geralt, I love you."

"I know," Geralt answered easily. "Come for me, songbird, there's a good boy –”

"Fuck!" Jaskier shouted again.

His cunt spasmed wonderfully, but better than that, _so_ much better, was the feeling through the bond. It was a fucking rush. Geralt grunted and managed a few more sloppy thrusts before his orgasm overtook him, his knot swelled in an instant, and Jaskier gasped again as they were locked together. Geralt hovered over Jaskier, panting. Jaskier grabbed at his armor with weak fingers.

"Should've taken my clothes off earlier," Geralt muttered between heavy breaths.

"It was glorious," Jaskier answered softly. "Very nice handholds."

Geralt kissed him again. Jaskier purred, his hands sliding into Geralt's hair, and he clenched around his knot again. Geralt growled and ground it into him. Jaskier sighed.

"Give me a minute," Geralt said, pecking Jaskier's lips.

Jaskier hummed. Geralt straightened up and started to shed his armor. It was cumbersome with his dick locked in Jaskier's hole, but manageable. He stripped naked, kicking everything out of his way, and picked Jaskier up from the bed. Jaskier merely chuckled and hung on his neck, secured on his knot. Geralt moved them, setting himself down at the head of the bed, and lay down. Jaskier pressed close to him, his face tucking under Geralt's jaw to rest at his throat, and Geralt found it easy to let him.

It felt wonderful, in fact.

"I think I shall love you better than any of the great romances," Jaskier murmured into his throat. "In fact, I will write our story and it will become the great romance."

"Hmm," Geralt answered.

Jaskier's fixation of writing about him had bothered him once, but no longer. Perhaps if he had the full capacity of his mind and not whatever was left over after rut, the smell of Jaskier's heat and post-orgasm contentedness in his nose, and the rightness that was Jaskier's heart beating in Geralt's own chest, he might have made a token protest. But fortunately, at that time, he did not feel the need to deflect.

"You should know," Jaskier added, "I don't always enjoy taking cock up this hole outside heat."

"Y've got another one," Geralt answered lazily.

Jaskier let out a beautiful laugh. Geralt smiled. Then Jaskier sat up a little, enough to look Geralt in the eye, and he touched Geralt's cheek with a palm so gentle, it was almost reverent.

"You've never smiled at me before," he whispered.

"I have," Geralt countered. "I just never let you see."

Jaskier let out this breath and brought their lips together. He was slow, and it took some time for Geralt to recognize tenderness. No one had ever kissed him tenderly before. 

"Please smile when I can see, my darling," Jaskier asked against his lips. "You're so beautiful when you smile."

Geralt did as his bard asked. He touched his cheek so Jaskier would lift his head to look and he smiled.

"Alright," Geralt promised. 

Jaskier grinned, handsomely easy as always. He kissed Geralt tenderly again. Geralt cupped the back of his head to hold him close. He loved the feeling between them as they kissed. It was like the physical warmth of a good mead, lots of it, and sent contented satisfaction to the very tips of his fingers and toes. 

It was very unfamiliar and instantly addictive.

Jaskier sighed and laid his head down at Geralt's throat. Geralt tucked his nose into Jaskier's hair, inhaled, and found the feeling of warmth stayed in him even when the kiss was over.

"I do love you back," Geralt said softly. "I may be terrible at saying it. But I do."

He felt Jaskier's cheeks lift as he smiled. "I know," he answered.

*

Jaskier's heat lasted six days and he slept through two days after. Geralt probably scared the shit out of the servants who ended up bringing him food with his rut instincts, and he cared very little. Eight days of honeymoon, then Jaskier was recovered.

"I've never slept better," he announced. "Geralt, weather and company permitting, you must always sleep naked."

"I fail to see how that will make you sleep better," Geralt answered, flummoxed but amused.

"Obviously, it's because your Alpha-ness soothes a primal part of my mind," Jaskier said.

"Hmm," Geralt replied.

"Next," Jaskier continued, "how exactly is it you have an apartment in the palace of Queen Calanthe?"

"That's your doing," Geralt said, his lip turning in a smile.

"Pardon?" Jaskier said, frowning heavily back at Geralt.

"You forced me to go to the party that led to my Child of Surprise," Geralt said. "Princess Cirilla is my pupil and I her guardian, so Calanthe arranged for a living space for me."

"Oh," Jaskier answered. "Oh, my. I'll thank myself for the glorious bed, then."

Geralt rolled his eyes.

On the ninth day, a butler knocked on Geralt's door outside of a meal hour.

"Her Majesty the Queen summons you," they said.

Geralt huffed. But he dressed, preparing for the worst with Calanthe as always.

"Darling," Jaskier said out of nowhere.

"Mm?" Geralt answered.

"I have no change of clothes," Jaskier said. "They all smell like heat."

"I'll have them washed," Geralt offered.

"That does nothing for me now," Jaskier said with a scoff. "Do you want me to walk out there to meet the Queen naked?"

Jealousy stabbed in Geralt's chest at the thought and he immediately growled. Jaskier raised his eyebrows, his expression suddenly curious.

"You'll stay here," Geralt said.

"I want to answer the Queen with you!" Jaskier insisted. "Give me something to wear, your clothes shouldn't be too big on me."

Geralt huffed again. He gave Jaskier small clothes, stockings, an undershirt, then trousers and a shirt, and Jaskier dressed. The pants fit him alright, though loose in the thighs, but the shirt dwarfed him. Jaskier wrinkled his nose as he examined himself. Geralt tipped his head to the side as a few choices emotions swelled in his gut; primarily lust.

"You must wear my clothes often," Geralt announced.

"Ha! Why is everything black?" Jaskier countered. "Everything, Geralt! Would it kill you to add a splash of color on occasion?"

"Yes," Geralt said.

Jaskier looked at him, then laughed heartily, throwing his head back and holding onto his stomach. Geralt smiled.

They left the apartment in essentially the same clothes. The butler bowed to them collectively and turned on his heel to lead them. Jaskier picked up Geralt's hand and laced their fingers together. Geralt was unsure what to do with him.

The butler took them to the main hall, where Calanthe was holding court, and left them at the side of the room with another bow. Jaskier stood very close to Geralt, which he was not going to complain about.

"Ah," Calanthe said when she spotted them. "Come forward, Witcher."

Geralt approached, though Jaskier lingered at the edge of the court. Calanthe pursed her lips, leaning to one side in her throne, and drummed her fingers on the arm of the throne.

"So," she said. "You could have deigned to notify your host that you would be bringing in an Omega in heat ahead of time."

Jaskier yelped behind Geralt. Geralt gritted his teeth and glared at Calanthe.

"If you had permitted me a lodging outside the castle it would have been no issue," he snapped.

"And have my granddaughter's guardian where I cannot defend him?" Calanthe retorted. "That is irrelevant to the issue at hand."

"It's none of your business," Geralt said.

Calanthe sat upright. "None of my business?" she parroted. "None of _my_ business? I am your Queen, Witcher!"

"You are my employer," Geralt retorted swiftly. "I owe no fealty to any royal or nobility."

"You live in my house!" Calanthe answered. "You teach my granddaughter!"

"What do you want from me?" Geralt demanded. "What I do in my personal life has nothing to do with what you employ me for, your Majesty."

"It does when you do it in my home!" Calanthe answered.

Jaskier ran up just then, grabbing Geralt's arm. His fingers slid under Geralt's sleeve, and a tightness in his chest that Geralt hadn't even realized was gripping him eased. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. Jaskier squeezed his forearm.

"I concede that I should have notified you," Geralt said stiffly. "It was not planned and by the time we arrived, both of us were…”

"In the throws?" Jaskier suggested.

Geralt grimaced, but tilted his head and lifted his brow. 

Calanthe only scoffed. "The bard, I understand, but you, Witcher? I would expect better of you; even with an Omega in the throws," she repeated mockingly.

Geralt blinked slowly at her. Calanthe raised her eyebrows.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier said, "would you expect any Alpha to be in any better state than an Omegas during season? Has your Majesty's husband ever thought logically during your season?"

Calanthe leveled a glare on Jaskier. "I will permit you speaking out of term because you are likely still dim-witted," she snapped.

Geralt bared his teeth even as Calanthe opened her mouth to continue. "Call him that _one_ more time," he growled.

Calanthe looked at him, now bemused. "Master Witcher," she said, "because I know my granddaughter loves you, I will not have you exiled for blatantly disrespecting me, this moment or nine days ago!"

"Your Majesty," Jaskier started.

"Be silent, Omega!" Calanthe snapped.

Geralt snarled, reaching for his sword. Jaskier gasped, grabbing him, even as guards drew their weapons and advanced. Calanthe let out a laugh of surprise.

"If I didn't know better, Witcher, I'd think you were rutting!" she said.

"I am!" Geralt snarled again.

Jaskier stepped between Calanthe and Geralt and grabbed his hands. Geralt snapped his focus to him, breathing heavily, but Jaskier smiled at him. He pushed, gently, and Geralt gritted his teeth as he allowed Jaskier to force his hands into sheathing his sword. 

"I'm alright," Jaskier murmured. "We both are."

Geralt inhaled sharply. Jaskier lifted Geralt's hands, pulling them apart, then stepped between them and slid his arms around Geralt's waist. He tucked himself under Geralt's chin, leaning on him. It was instinct and felt almost vital for Geralt to wrap his arms around Jaskier and hold on tightly.

"Tell me, what is the matter with you?" Calanthe snapped. "You are a Witcher, you cannot rut!"

"He did and it was wonderful," Jaskier called over his shoulder.

Geralt glared at Calanthe. She narrowed her eyes.

"So," she said. "Perhaps you were… as indisposed as your bard nine days ago. However, it does not excuse your behavior now!"

"Stop calling my bard names then," Geralt replied with a dry sneer.

Calanthe pursed her lips, drew back her nose in half a snarl, but then her expression relaxed. And then she laughed.

"Your bard," she repeated. 

Jaskier giggled.

"My bard," Geralt said again sharply.

Jaskier giggled again, twisting to press closer to Geralt. Geralt tightened his grip.

"Well," Calanthe drawled, "I assume that means congratulations are in order?"

Geralt flicked his eyebrows up. 

"Fine," Calanthe said. "I'm waiting for my apology."

"For?" Geralt countered.

Calanthe no longer smiled. "Don't play cute."

"Be nice," Jaskier hissed.

Geralt growled at the utter absurdity of the situation. He drew in a deep breath and forced a grimacing smile.

"I apologize for the inconvenience," he said through his gritted teeth. 

Calanthe raised her eyebrows.

"And…” Geralt added, resisting the urge to flinch. "And for… insulting you."

"And?" Calanthe prompted.

"I will not apologize for being angry that you insulted my bard!" Geralt snapped.

Jaskier giggled again. Geralt gritted his teeth again, stilling himself from breaking into a feral expression. Or moving his hands. He didn't currently trust himself.

"How about for threatening me?" Calanthe asked, raising her nose speculatively.

"Are you amused by this?" Geralt demanded.

"Greatly," Calanthe said, her lip flicking up.

Geralt bared his teeth again, then grabbed Jaskier about the waist and tossed him over his shoulder. Jaskier grunted in surprise, then grabbed the back of his armor as Geralt stormed out of the hall with him. As he yanked open the doors, Ciri jumped back from them with a look of startled fright, then she immediately wrinkled her nose.

"You smell awful," she accused. 

Jaskier laughed aloud while Geralt made a sour face. Ciri frowned.

"Whose rear end is that?" she asked, standing up on her toes and eyeing Jaskier's backside.

"Mine," Geralt snapped unthinkingly, then, with no other alternative, strode off as Jaskier continued to laugh.

“You confuse me, Geralt!” Ciri called after them. “Where are you going?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older!” Jaskier answered her. “Lovely to meet you, your Highness!”

Geralt turned a corner and Jaskier’s laughter bounced off the stone walls while Ciri’s faded. He intended to return to his apartment – Jaskier’s too, now, he mused – and toss Jaskier back into his bed to mark his territory again. From Jaskier’s pleased scent and the low thrum of lust Geralt knew was mutual through the bond, he could guess that plan would be well received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _stan geralt being feral or i'm coming for your knees. don't tempt me i have arrows._


	9. Love, Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _this is the end, y'all. jaskier sings more amazing devil songs bc they're the greatest. also pls note that i wrote all of this before the horror and the wild came out so that's why no songs from that album appear here. so, um, fluff? hope you like fluff. there's fluff._

##  **_(9) Love, Run_ **

  
  


Jaskier knew Geralt did not enjoy staying in one place long, but they had remained in Cintra in the days after their bonding. Jaskier wouldn't complain, he did enjoy sleeping in a real bed and one as nice as Geralt's in the palace, to boot. 

Mornings were slow to begin in Geralt's palace apartment. There were no windows in the bedroom, and on the first day the haze of heat no longer fogged his head, Jaskier was surprised when he woke up and Geralt was still asleep; he was spooning Jaskier tightly with a frown on his face even in sleep, arms and legs wrapped snugly about him. It was nice. His weight around Jaskier was reassuring and he was very warm, he radiated gentle heat like a pan of coals. 

Jaskier didn't want to disturb Geralt; he deserved a good rest. It was easy for him to lie still and just enjoy being held. He felt calm; not tired, but very relaxed. Most of the time he grew bored of doing nothing in mere moments, but not there, not cocooned in Geralt's embrace. His head was empty and it was truly glorious.

Though he had no idea what time it was, Jaskier assumed it was past dawn and that Geralt would likely wake before long. Time passed without Jaskier noticing it much, which, again, would have been odd if he had the wherewithal to care. And eventually, Geralt grumbled in his sleep and his frown intensified as his arms drew tighter around Jaskier. Jaskier smiled at him, exasperated and fond, and let himself be squished against Geralt's massive chest. There were worse things to endure than being smothered by a set of gloriously large pectoral muscles. One could even call them tits, Jaskier mused, settling his hand in the valley of Geralt's chest to feel his slow heartbeat.

The rhythm was soothing. Jaskier closed his eyes again; perhaps he could fall asleep again, he thought. Geralt sniffed in his sleep and shifted himself, promptly bringing his morning wood flush against Jaskier's hip. 

Jaskier snapped his eyes open and bit his lip, all thought of sleep abandoned.

Geralt began to snore softly, barely more than a low rumble, and Jaskier slid his hand down the plane of Geralt's abdomen, fingers trailing through the cut of his muscles and smoothing through featherlite white hair that ran down the midline of his torso. Geralt had so far obeyed Jaskier's wishes and slept in the nude, and it was easy to wrap a hand around his cock. Jaskier bit down on his lip again as he thumbed at the tip, sliding back the foreskin, and it grew wet in his grip. He, too, started to get wet, though his body was much slower to the challenge than Geralt's; his front hole was rather sore from days of endless sex, yet a thrill slid up Jaskier's spine at the thought of taking Geralt inside him again. That was, too, odd, given he wrinkled his nose at the suggestion of anything going near that part of his body so often. Jaskier decided Geralt was simply different. 

Didn't hurt that Geralt's knot hit Jaskier's favorite sweet spot inside his front hole just perfectly.

Geralt rumbled in his sleep, not much different than his snore, but a little confused. Jaskier slid his wet fingers down Geralt's shaft lightly and pressed a gentle kiss to his collarbone before tucking his cheek against the spot and breathing deeply. Geralt's scent picked up in arousal, then, as Jaskier slid back his foreskin to caress under the head, Geralt let out a low, deep groan and his hand moved to grip Jaskier's elbow.

"How long have you been doing that, bard?" he murmured roughly.

"Couldn't tell," Jaskier answered, soft to match the tone of sleep still in Geralt's voice. "I've been awake for a while."

"Should've woken me," Geralt muttered.

"You looked so peaceful," Jaskier teased, lifting his head to smile at Geralt.

Geralt grunted. He moved his hand, wrapping it around Jaskier's and his dick. Jaskier pressed up and brought their lips together. Geralt growled against his mouth and moved their hands together over his cock.

"I want it in me again," Jaskier answered his growl.

"Where?" Geralt prompted.

Jaskier grinned. "Front," he said, "you sweet, considerate Alpha."

Geralt rumbled again, a sleepy but lustful smile curling his lip, and pushed Jaskier onto his back. Jaskier lifted his knees, opening his legs to receive him, and Geralt began a campaign of aggressive kisses down Jaskier's neck.

Without the fever and fervor of heat, Jaskier was slower to open to Geralt's cock. Geralt didn't seem to care, he spit onto his fingers and coaxed Jaskier's hole to loosen. He used his thumb on Jaskier's cock at the same time, proving you could teach an old Alpha new tricks. When they were finally joined, Jaskier dug his heels into the small of Geralt's back while he cried out every time Geralt slammed into him.

"Go on, come on Daddy's cock," Geralt growled demandingly in his ear.

"Oh, fuck!" Jaskier answered, breathy and loud.

And he did. Then again on Geralt's knot. Jaskier couldn't ask for more.

Geralt hung over him while they were locked together after Jaskier's second orgasm. Jaskier pulled him into a kiss and Geralt responded slowly. Jaskier adored to kiss and be kissed just for the pleasure of it, and soon, Geralt caught up with his lazy intentions.

His knot grew soft soon. Jaskier enjoyed having it in him, but once he was even slightly loose again, Geralt pulled out. Jaskier whined, but Geralt broke the kiss and got up, leaving the bed. Jaskier sat up, mouth dropping open. Geralt walked away and took a cloth from the washstand, then filled the basin from a pitcher and wet the cloth to wipe his dick clean.

"I'll get a kettle on the hearth for you," Geralt offered, dropping the soiled cloth on the washstand before turning to leave the room.

"Oi!" Jaskier called out.

Geralt stopped at the door, turned back, and looked at him blankly.

"Come back here!" Jaskier demanded.

Geralt walked back to him. "What is it?"

"You're shirking your duties as a mate, is what it is," Jaskier insisted. "Get back in bed."

Geralt frowned. "Do you wish to come again?" he asked blankly.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Not everything is about sex, darling Witcher. Come here."

Geralt frowned heavier, but crawled into the bed again and settled on his side by Jaskier. Jaskier, still offended, threw the blankets over them and shoved Geralt onto his back to snuggle against his side with a pout. Geralt lay there stiffly, and Jaskier huffed.

" _ Hold _ me, you knob," he said, grabbing Geralt's arm to pull it over his waist.

"Oh," Geralt said. "Sorry."

Jaskier tutted. "It's like you never took the time for a cuddle after sex," he grumbled.

Geralt hummed lowly. Jaskier lifted his head with a suspicious squint.

"Have you?" he asked.

"No," Geralt admitted freely.

"Oh, my sweet Witcher!" Jaskier gasped sympathetically. "I'm so sorry!"

"What for?" Geralt replied.

Jaskier tutted again and leaned up to kiss Geralt's frown. Geralt made a confused noise and Jaskier drew back a little.

"Don't get me wrong," Geralt said, his eyebrows brought together in a bemused crease of his forehead, "I do enjoy your lips, but I'm afraid I'll be out of the count for quite a while."

"We're  _ cuddling, _ fool," Jaskier scolded. "Again, not everything is a prelude to sex. This is what we do  _ after _ sex."

"Why?" Geralt asked.

"Doesn't it feel good?" Jaskier countered, thoroughly confused.

Geralt hesitated. Jaskier drew back, abruptly concerned, and Geralt quickly caught his arm, pulling him back.

"It does," Geralt said sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Jaskier, I just – I hadn't thought you might want that; a cuddle, I mean."

"Of course I do," Jaskier huffed, laying his head on Geralt's shoulder. "You're my lover."

Geralt set his hand on Jaskier's shoulder, holding back its weight, then he awkwardly patted Jaskier. Jaskier chuckled and gripped Geralt's shoulder to pull him onto his side again.

"Wrap around me," he encouraged, "nice and tight, like you were while you were sleeping."

"Was I?" Geralt said. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Jaskier laughed. "It's nice!"

Geralt still frowned in confusion. Jaskier pulled his arms around his waist and tugged on his thigh until Geralt tossed it over his hips. Jaskier tucked his head under Geralt's chin and curled his leg over his knee, hooking them together. Geralt put his nose in Jaskier's hair.

"This is cuddling," Jaskier said softly. "Whenever possible, I want it."

"It is nice," Geralt murmured into his hair.

Jaskier smiled and pressed a kiss to Geralt's throat, settling a hand over his heart. "Good," he said. "You can ask for a cuddle at any time, too. I'll never turn it down."

"You can't say that," Geralt mumbled. "Can't know for sure."

Jaskier snorted. "I can and I will, darling Witcher. There will never be a moment where I will not want your arms around me."

A beat passed. Geralt's heart was a little quick under Jaskier's palm. Gradually, Jaskier recognized a low thrum of anxiety in his chest. It wasn't his worry.

"What if you're angry with me?" Geralt murmured.

Jaskier pressed up to touch his forehead against Geralt's. Geralt avoided his eye, but Jaskier rested his palm against his cheek and coaxed his chin up, then pressed their lips together. He kept it chaste and when they separated, Geralt sighed.

"I love you," Jaskier said firmly. "I may get cross with you in the future, yes, but that will never change the fact that I love you."

Geralt bumped their noses together and sighed, his breath a little foul after the night. Jaskier kissed him again.

"You don't believe me," he said aloud. "That's alright. You can learn."

"I –…” Geralt began, tone reluctant and confused again. "I want to. I'm not sure… why I don't…”

"It's alright," Jaskier insisted. "I will still love you unconditionally, and you will come to believe me over time. It's alright."

Geralt let out a low, upset noise. His grip tightened. Jaskier brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and just smiled at him.

"I should believe you now," Geralt grunted. "I have no right to doubt you."

Jaskier clucked his tongue. He cupped Geralt's chin and rubbed their noses together affectionately.

"I give you permission to be afraid," Jaskier murmured. "And I will love you through it."

Geralt drew in his breath. Jaskier kissed him slowly, and Geralt eventually relaxed. The grip of anxiety Jaskier felt from him faded. 

"I feel…” Geralt said absently, "I feel… Things."

"A very human thing," Jaskier answered with a smile.

"Jaskier," Geralt sighed heavily, "you know I'm not human."

Jaskier kissed him firmly. "You feel human enough to me," he insisted. "Unique as you may be, your heart pumps the same blood as mine. What difference is there when it comes down to the simplest parts of us?"

Geralt hummed, though he still frowned. Jaskier tapped the tip of his nose and Geralt blinked.

"See?" Jaskier said, smiling. "You can't argue with me."

Geralt huffed. He pressed their foreheads together and squeezed Jaskier's waist. Jaskier let out a soft, pleased purr.

"You are happy," Geralt observed.

"Mhmm," Jaskier hummed.

"I…” Geralt started, then paused, licking his lips. "I am… too. Happy, I mean. And I love you, as well."

Jaskier grinned. "Thank you for telling me how you feel," he said gently.

Geralt grunted softly. He bumped his nose against Jaskier's, then brought their lips together almost shyly. Jaskier purred for him again and he felt Geralt's emotions swoop. He grinned against Geralt's lips.

"I will try to make sure you know what I feel," Geralt offered. "I can't promise I'll be much good about it, but… I'll try."

"Thank you," Jaskier said. "That's all I could ever ask of you."

"Can we stay like this?" Geralt blurted. "A little while longer?"

Jaskier curled his arm around Geralt's neck and held him as tight as Geralt did for him.

"Of course," he answered. "For as long as you like."

Geralt's lips curled in a slow, bashful smile. Jaskier couldn't help but kiss it.

*

They did eventually leave Cintra. Geralt had a new contract. It was impractical for them to both ride the same horse despite how much Jaskier adored to be pressed against Geralt's back or chest, so Geralt bought a second horse; a spotted gray mare called Sugar, who was much more temperant than Roach the Fifth. 

"Thank you very much, my darling," Jaskier said happily as Geralt handed him Sugar’s reins.

Geralt grunted. Jaskier lifted onto his toes and kissed Geralt's chronic scowl. When he drew back, Geralt was almost smiling.

"You shouldn't be so brazen in public," Geralt told him in a reluctant tone.

"Rubbish," Jaskier said, tossing an arm around Geralt's neck. "I shall not be deterred from showing my love affection in any setting."

Geralt did smile fully then. And his cheeks pinked up, too. Jaskier grinned.

*

Out of nowhere one night, as they camped in the woods, supper eaten and fire crackling, Geralt said: "You don't wear the salve anymore."

"Which one?" Jaskier asked.

"The one that masks your scent," Geralt said, gesturing awkwardly to his neck.

Jaskier let out a laugh. Geralt only frowned at him.

"Why would I?" Jaskier asked him genuinely. "I've got you."

Geralt frowned greater. "I don't follow."

Jaskier sniggered and got up from his spot, crossed the gap between them, and straddled Geralt's lap. Geralt sat back, his confusion slipping to make room for a surprised hopefulness, which was very amusing even after weeks of it every time Jaskier did something provocative.

"I have no need to mask my scent with your mark on my neck," Jaskier told Geralt with a smirk. "You see, I smell more like you than myself. And given our bond in my scent, there's not an idiot alive that would mistake my mere existence as an Omega for an invitation."

"Oh," Geralt said.

"It doesn't hurt that you mark me so thoroughly," Jaskier purred. " _ Inside _ and out."

Geralt  _ blushed. _

"I hadn't realized you noticed," he muttered.

"Of course I do," Jaskier said with a smirk. "I quite enjoy the feeling of your seed inside me, especially once it starts to leak out and it gets all over my thighs."

Geralt let out a growl, his hands moving to grip Jaskier's waist.

"No fool would approach me unbidden with the smell of your claim everywhere on my body," Jaskier continued, thoroughly pleased with the pressure of Geralt's cock growing under his hips.

"I hated the smell of that shit," Geralt rumbled.

"Do I smell better now?" Jaskier asked in a murmur.

"Yes," Geralt said bluntly. "Especially right now."

Jaskier gave a grin and began to grind his hips down on Geralt's erection. "I bet you could make me smell even better soon," he teased.

Geralt growled and surged up. Jaskier ended up on his back on their bedroll, legs wrapping around Geralt's waist eagerly as Geralt attacked his mouth in a kiss.

"Mark me up, Daddy," Jaskier demanded.

"Gladly," Geralt rumbled.

*

Autumn began to close, the nights coming sooner and colder. They passed through Aedirn and Geralt unexpectedly put a large box in Jaskier's hands one day.

"What is this?" Jaskier said, smiling already as he began to open it.

"Nothing," Geralt grunted. "It's cold out. Just open it."

Jaskier pulled a long, thick, sleeved cloak from the box, a bright blue with silver fur-trimmed hood and cuffs, and cooed at it in delight. He stood up at once and swung it on, fastening the shiny brass buttons between the neck and waist. The inside was lined in silk and the exterior was as soft as down against his skin.

"You!" Jaskier cried, launching himself at Geralt happily; Geralt caught him with a grunt and hugged him back tightly. "You, dearheart, are a good provider," Jaskier mumbled against Geralt's neck.

"It's just a coat," Geralt muttered.

"It's gorgeous!" Jaskier insisted, drawing back to smack a kiss to Geralt's mouth. "And it's very warm. Thank you, darling."

Geralt grunted again. His cheeks were pink. Jaskier nuzzled their noses together as he continued to grin.

"Thank you, love," he said again. "I love it."

"I'm glad," Geralt said softly. "I – I wasn't sure about the color –”

"Blue is my favorite," Jaskier insisted. "And I'm very touched that you considered what color I would want! You're very thoughtful, sweet Witcher."

Geralt turned pinker and Jaskier touched his warm cheeks.

"You're very pretty when you blush," he cooed.

Geralt looked affronted. "I don't blush," he said. "Nor am I  _ pretty. _ "

"I wish I had a mirror," Jaskier laughed. "You're as pink as a rose and prettier!"

"You're the pretty one, bard," Geralt retorted like he was _offended_ by the suggestion.

"We may  _ both _ be pretty," Jaskier answered. "Take that pretty mouth and kiss me."

Geralt huffed, but he did as he was told.

*

As winter neared, they turned west. One night as they camped near Brokilon, Geralt surprised Jaskier by laying down by his side and putting his head unprompted on Jaskier's thigh. Geralt rarely instigated contact, though he clearly loved it. 

"Hello, lovely," Jaskier said with a happy smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Felt like it," Geralt muttered. "Is it – Is this okay?"

"Of course," Jaskier said, putting his hands into Geralt's hair. "I'm going to braid this," he declared.

"Alright," Geralt said.

Jaskier smiled wider and began combing through the thick silver strands. He started to hum as he did, not even meaning to.

"You can sing," Geralt said abruptly.

"I thought you didn't like my singing," Jaskier teased.

"I do," Geralt answered readily.

Jaskier laughed softly. "You once compared my voice to a pie without filling," he reminded him gently, though he no longer felt upset about it, and really, it had been a very weak insult with Geralt’s fondness for pastry known.

"I was lying," Geralt said then.

Jaskier paused, having not expected that. "Why?"

Geralt let out a slow breath. "I…” he began. "I thought it would make you leave me."

"Did you want me to?" Jaskier asked, the mirth fading from him.

"No," Geralt said immediately. "I never did."

Jaskier smiled again. "Well," he said, resuming his careful ministrations to Geralt's hair, "I never shall."

Geralt smiled. "That makes me happy," he murmured.

Jaskier bent low and kissed his forehead. "Good."

"Will you sing?" Geralt asked. "Please?"

"If you wish," Jaskier answered happily. 

He cleared his throat, then began to hum the melody of one of his favorite songs he'd ever written about Geralt.

“Not that one,” Geralt said quickly. 

Jaskier stopped, now frowning. “Why not?”

Geralt huffed, his lip turning down. “I don’t particularly want to hear a love song about someone from your past,” he grumbled.

Jaskier drew in his breath, then laughed. “Fool,” he said fondly. “I’m flattered you know this one, but clearly, you didn’t listen closely enough.”

Geralt frowned, too. Jaskier resumed his humming.

“O, let the land come at you, love,” he sang in a soft tempo, matching the quiet and calm between the two of them, “like distant toms a-drumming. Love, run! The song you know’s begun!”

Geralt hummed, both thoughtful and irked. Jaskier only smiled.

“O, let the earth a-tumble, love, and humble you withal, keep running. It’s up to you now, up to you now, love, to, love, run!”

“I don’t get it,” Geralt said.

Jaskier hushed him and put a finger on his lips. Geralt huffed.

“Love, run,” Jaskier continued, “for all the things you’ve done, run for all the things that drum, run for all those pages thumbed; love, run, love, run. Run for all you know that’s coming, run to show that love’s worth running to…”

He switched to humming again, mimicking the notes he’d pick on his lute for the interlude. Geralt continued to frown. Jaskier hummed the start of the next verse, his fingers still threading through Geralt’s hair.

“Let foul men band and heed your hum for that ancient hymn you heard me strumming; ‘tis naught but fumble-falls and thugs and tumbleweeds, love, run! It’s naught that rum won’t solve; though some would harm you, none – not one, no, none, would raise to you a hand nor thumb, not while by you I stand and hum.”

With the help of Madeline and their band, the end of the second verse would be a crescendo, but here, Jaskier crooned it. Geralt’s brows creased in a slightly different frown, his lips parted slightly in the center.

“O, let the land come at you, love,” Jaskier proceeded to the final verse. “With all its sand and sin, a-singing, a song you once knew well’s begun, run until your lungs are numb. Now let the earth a-tumble, love, and humble you withal, keep running, it’s not from what we run that drums, but what’s to come.”

It would’ve been another crescendo there, and really, the first and last verse were Madeline’s to sing, but Jaskier had written them; with none but the thought of his Witcher in mind.

“Love, run,” he sang in a murmur, “love, run. For all the things you’ve done. Run for all the things that drum, run for all those pages thumbed. Love, run, love, run, for all the things we wished we’d done. Run from all you know that’s coming, run to show that love’s worth running to.”

Jaskier finished with another hum. When he went quiet, Geralt opened his eyes.

“Well?” Jaskier asked softly.

“Nobody does throw rocks at me when you’re standing there,” Geralt mumbled.

Jaskier’s lips split in a grin. “See?” he said. “I’ve never written a love song that wasn’t about you. At least, not since we met. And unless I was paid to compose it for someone else. That has happened once or twice.”

Geralt huffed again, but he smiled softly. Jaskier stilled his hand in Geralt’s hair and bent again, now pressing their lips together softly. Geralt reached up and cupped the back of Jaskier’s head, holding him close.

When their lips parted, Geralt still held Jaskier close by the back of his head. Jaskier folded an arm across his chest, brushing a hand across his cheek. Geralt, his eyes shut, inhaled and exhaled slowly.

“Love is worth running to,” Geralt admitted. “I’m sorry I ran away from it for so long.”

“I forgive you,” Jaskier said softly.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmured. “I don’t think I’ve earned that yet, but I’ll work for it.”

Jaskier smiled, a bit sadly. “I think you ought to work on forgiving yourself, dearheart,” he suggested gently.

“Perhaps,” Geralt said noncommittally.

“Well,” Jaskier answered, “we have the rest of our lives for you to work on that. I will carry on loving you as you are.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Geralt said.

“Rubbish,” Jaskier said gently. “Utter tosh. We have always been destined for each other, Witcher, so, you have always deserved me and you always will.”

Geralt chuckled. Jaskier looked at him sternly.

“If you give me that  _ destiny is horseshit _ nonsense, I shall refuse to put out tonight,” he warned.

“Well, with such a compelling threat,” Geralt answered with a dry smile. “No. I think I’ve come to believe in destiny a little.”

“A little?” Jaskier repeated.

“Just a little,” Geralt said, lip curling at one corner.

“Good enough for me,” Jaskier answered.

“Good enough that you’ll put out?” Geralt answered teasingly.

“Piss off,” Jaskier chuckled, fond and in love. “You know I’ll never say no to that cock.”

"Oh, never?" Geralt drawled. ”Gods, bard, I know troubadours are all tarts but, really, you take the prize for the sluttiest of them all."

"I have a trophy and everything," Jaskier teased, before kissing Geralt again.

With a hum, Geralt laced his fingers through Jaskier's hair. Their horses knickered low to each other. The coals cracked with sparks as the flame consumed them. Geralt and Jaskier kissed unhurried, but soon, snow began to fall.

"In the tent," Geralt ordered, getting up to tend to the horses. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Jaskier rose and simply followed Geralt to where their horses were tied.

"I'm tempted to take a hand to your rear, brat," Geralt threatened.

"Promise, Daddy?" Jaskier answered with a grin.

Geralt rolled his eyes. But he smiled.

Jaskier had already written several ballads about his lover's smile, but he'd always write more. Nothing inspired him better than Geralt's smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _and they lived happily ever after. after making jaskier immortal._

**Author's Note:**

> _you can check out me out on other places on the internet if you so wish;[my twitter](https://twitter.com/moonythejedi), [my tumblr](http://moonythejedi394.tumblr.com/). no minors, please!_


End file.
